I'm delighted to welcome Marilyn Barr to my blog. Her newest book, Quartermaster, is part of a series that releases this month. Read an excerpt, discover the inspiration behind the book, and learn what Marilyn's guilty pleasure is.
Please help me welcome Marilyn.
What inspired you to write this book?
I’m a homeschooling mom. I taught the foundations of democracy to my then-10-year-old to kick off his US history class. From Hammurabi’s code in ancient Mesopotamia to the pirate parlay code, I found democracy was found in more places than in ancient Greece and the colonial USA. In fact, women and people of color had equal rights on the sea, but not on land in colonial America. I fell in love with the governing systems of what I always thought were “lawless scoundrels.” Every job aboard was a voted position from Captain to poop deck scrubber, and each person holding those positions had an equal vote. Pirate Captains were slave liberators and portrayed as villains because the ones losing money are the same men writing the history. The truth is buried in the shipping logs from the port masters and merchant boat Captains. I was fascinated!
Quartermaster comes from a love of psychological warfare in the records of 1700s piracy. In the movies, pirates are portrayed as brainless sword-slashers when historically, they hardly ever boarded another vessel. They depended on their reputations to scare their opponents—easy when the general population was superstitious. I fell in love with the tales of Sam Bellamy taking the Whydah by making a pretend ghost ship, Blackbeard braiding firecrackers into his beard to appear possessed, and the rest of the shenanigans of the 4 years called the Golden Age of Pirates. While I wrote about this period in the Walk the Walk series, Quartermaster takes place in 1725. By then, most of the pirates had taken pardons and retired from the sweet trade to a landlubbing life of agriculture or crime. I wondered what would happen if a boat refused to retire. They would be hated by the Spanish, English, and colonial Americans…
I was already half in love with Chub from his role in my other book series, so writing his happily ever after (HEA) became a passion piece. I knew I wanted him to represent tough men who weren’t tall, dark, and classically handsome gentlemen. Chub is a 5 foot 3 inches tall, freckled, red-headed pirate with more brains than manners. What he brings to the table is a patient disposition, a talent for teaching, and a huge heart. He teaches the young crew how to sail, the Captain to read, and his lady love to trust again. I wanted his HEA so badly, the story wrote itself.
Do you have any guilt pleasures or books you can’t get enough of?
I’ve jumped onto the monster and alien romance bandwagon with both feet. I can’t get enough of sweet, mushy heroes who sport horns, fangs, and fur coats. While they can get cheesy, I think monster romance is gently teaching society inclusion (which is a huge part of why I write.) Heroines love their monsters for who they are on the inside. Romance is often portrayed with acts of service and quality time in addition to the steamy stuff found in contemporary romance. If a guy can’t kiss because of his elongated fangs or absence of lips, he must work harder to be romantic.
I also love the monster romance books where I can lose myself in another world…and let my geek flag fly. Some of my favorite authors growing up were Ray Bradbury, Madeline L’Engle, H.G. Well, and Jules Verne. If you add the element of romance to these, you get the futuristic, space travel, and fearsome romance of today’s kindle unlimited. Just because I’ve grown to love all the kissing scenes doesn’t mean my nerdy little heart aches to shoot bad guys with ray guns and plasma blasters.
Tell us something about yourself and how you became an author.
In 2015, my paranormal romance collection was my most-effective tool against depression. I had given up my career as a teacher to homeschool my medically fragile son. My days went from 45-student Physics classes surrounded by opportunities to converse with colleagues, to isolation. My husband travels for work, so most days my son was my only human contact. My books provided adult conversation until I became part of a homeschool mom support group in my new town.
Fast forward to 2018, when I was writing steamy paranormal romance books and “playing author.” If you follow me on TikTok, you know playing dress up is one of my favorite activities. But long before I joined the clock app, I had my books printed and bound by the local office supply store as my “publishing.” I would distribute them to my mom-friends and we would meet at my house once a month for a “book club.” I loved the giggles, conversation, and sharing of our love of romance—more specifically the Strawberry Shifters.
A year later, international travel halted and my husband was home most of the time. He found out I was writing and distributing my books in a pretend world. Instead of laughing or dismissing my dream, he took it upon himself to make my career “official.” Within three hours, I had a website, membership to Kentuckiana Romance Writers, and tickets to several reader-author meetups where I could meet the authors of the books I was reading. At one of those events, I met my hero, Lora Leigh who said to query Bear with Me to a small press. Not wanting to let her down, I queried The Wild Rose Press that night…and the rest is history.
About the Book
Quartermaster
Author: Marilyn Barr
Genre: Historical, Paranormal Romance
Heat level: Mildly spicy, kissing and talk of desires, not over PG-13
Can the love of a pirate heal the wounds inflicted by a gentleman?
Blurb:
Catalina
He violated me. Don Rodrigo took my family’s business, home, and titles, but he will never own me. I’m on the run. He’s threatened to expose my secret. My last hope is to intercept the ship carrying my dowry before our match is permanent. Trusting pirates to give me a fair share is foolish but not as much as staying on the same island as my attacker…
Chub
The letter from our arch-nemesis was written in feminine calligraphy but our nutmeg Captain Teeth didn’t notice. Blimey that because the author of the letter is my lady love. I’d bet my last doubloon. If only she didn’t shrink away from my touch… Killing every scoundrel who dared to hurt her isn’t helping…but it cools the rage I hold inside.
Can Chub teach Catalina to assemble her shattered fragments into the strong woman she wants to be or is she too broken to believe in herself? Will she accept a pirate’s promise of true love or was the Mortar & Pestle’s message too late for lonely Chub to claim his lady love?
Trigger Warning: Rape before the story starts (not on the page and not by the hero)
Peek between the pages...
“Let’s have a cheer for our favorite Irishman, and he will dance a jig!” Teeth’s shout heats my face ten degrees. Make that twenty. I bet my head looks like a boiled tomato.
“I’m English, you grog blossom,” I grouse.
“Chub! Chub! Chub!”
All me hearties chant my name to goad me into dancing. I won’t fall for their pressure. Catalina’s sandy brown eyes sparkle with delight. She’s watching my response, it seems…and the desire to impress her overwhelms my common sense. My protests die on my tongue.
I wave my hand at the crowd to quiet them as I swagger to the main deck. Blasted feet march my person to the center, where me hearties form a circle. My dismay intensifies to annoyance when the mountainous nutmegs stand in front of Catalina’s seat. I’m not dancing if she’s not watching...and I’m not admitting that aloud like a petulant child, either. Without a second thought, I shove my way through the circle to bring her to the front lines.
My hand extends to her in an offer to help her up from where she sits.
Avast ye! What have I done? Her eyes are the size of doubloons a split second before she chokes on her water. It looks like I’ve asked her to dance with the whole boat as our audience. What a pudding-headed move! I’ll never live down her refusal. My arm drops in horror. How do I salvage this situation? What can I say to save face? And why is she now frowning—besides my blunder on both of our accounts?
Perhaps a rogue wave will leap out of the calm sea and swallow me whole.
“Catalina, I dinna—” My Irish brogue is thicker than stew, which compounds my embarrassment.
“I thought you would call me, Catty,” she interrupts. The quiet demand cracks like a whip. She threads her slender fingers through my sweaty hand at my side. She vibrates with fear as she uses me as leverage to stand. The frightened lady then drags me to the center of the main deck circle, where she waits for my lead.
Could she be afraid of me? In that case, why wouldn’t she refuse the dance and laugh off my advances?
The music slows, and I circle her like a vulture. My hearties laugh and catcall as if I’m hunting on their behalf. Their assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m watching her body language for clues on how to proceed without hurting her. A smirk plays upon her lips like she’s playing the game, but the corner of her left eye has a twitch that I would miss, had I not studied her. She rubs the leather cuff on her right wrist as if suffering from a rope burn.
I run my fingertip down her arm, and she shivers. Either she desires me to the point of losing control—which I doubt with this audience—or she’s covering a flinch at my touch. My fingertip climbs her other arm and across her shoulders. The flinch is unmistakable as her shoulders shimmy.
I hope she will appreciate the change in the crowd’s mood enough to forgive my crassness. “A lady with such bounce can’t dance to your sour dirge. Give us a jig with some life to it!”
The crew shows their agreement with boisterous applause and cheers. Catty blushes a delicate pink but breathes a sigh of relief when I stand beside her instead of in front of her. Someday, I hope to grind my hips against hers in a sultry island dance, but not when she’s trembling under my palms.
“I would never soil the honor of your presence by taking advantage of your sweet nature, my lady,” I whisper onto her shoulder. The top of my head is at her eye level. To whisper in her ear, I’d have to crowd her space on my tiptoes.
“For your observant and kind nature, I am most grateful,” she replies, so quietly that I must read her lips. The secret smile we share is one I will tuck into my heart for my darkest of days.
The music kicks up to a lively three-quarter tune. I hop on my toes in traditional Irish fashion and glare at anyone who points out my authenticity. After a few rounds of eight counts, Catty follows my footwork. We are bouncing and laughing while our audience claps along. I weave my footwork into her space and out again. The movements bring our bodies close for mere seconds before leading us apart like a delicious tease. With her hands unfettered, she can shove me away or swat at my antics. Instead, I collect shy smiles, flirty eyelash flutters, and eyefuls of bouncing dairy.
I bet this is what heaven is like.
“Let’s have a cheer for our favorite Irishman, and he will dance a jig!” Teeth’s shout heats my face ten degrees. Make that twenty. I bet my head looks like a boiled tomato.
“I’m English, you grog blossom,” I grouse.
“Chub! Chub! Chub!”
All me hearties chant my name to goad me into dancing. I won’t fall for their pressure. Catalina’s sandy brown eyes sparkle with delight. She’s watching my response, it seems…and the desire to impress her overwhelms my common sense. My protests die on my tongue.
I wave my hand at the crowd to quiet them as I swagger to the main deck. Blasted feet march my person to the center, where me hearties form a circle. My dismay intensifies to annoyance when the mountainous nutmegs stand in front of Catalina’s seat. I’m not dancing if she’s not watching...and I’m not admitting that aloud like a petulant child, either. Without a second thought, I shove my way through the circle to bring her to the front lines.
My hand extends to her in an offer to help her up from where she sits.
Avast ye! What have I done? Her eyes are the size of doubloons a split second before she chokes on her water. It looks like I’ve asked her to dance with the whole boat as our audience. What a pudding-headed move! I’ll never live down her refusal. My arm drops in horror. How do I salvage this situation? What can I say to save face? And why is she now frowning—besides my blunder on both of our accounts?
Perhaps a rogue wave will leap out of the calm sea and swallow me whole.
“Catalina, I dinna—” My Irish brogue is thicker than stew, which compounds my embarrassment.
“I thought you would call me, Catty,” she interrupts. The quiet demand cracks like a whip. She threads her slender fingers through my sweaty hand at my side. She vibrates with fear as she uses me as leverage to stand. The frightened lady then drags me to the center of the main deck circle, where she waits for my lead.
Could she be afraid of me? In that case, why wouldn’t she refuse the dance and laugh off my advances?
The music slows, and I circle her like a vulture. My hearties laugh and catcall as if I’m hunting on their behalf. Their assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m watching her body language for clues on how to proceed without hurting her. A smirk plays upon her lips like she’s playing the game, but the corner of her left eye has a twitch that I would miss, had I not studied her. She rubs the leather cuff on her right wrist as if suffering from a rope burn.
I run my fingertip down her arm, and she shivers. Either she desires me to the point of losing control—which I doubt with this audience—or she’s covering a flinch at my touch. My fingertip climbs her other arm and across her shoulders. The flinch is unmistakable as her shoulders shimmy.
I hope she will appreciate the change in the crowd’s mood enough to forgive my crassness. “A lady with such bounce can’t dance to your sour dirge. Give us a jig with some life to it!”
The crew shows their agreement with boisterous applause and cheers. Catty blushes a delicate pink but breathes a sigh of relief when I stand beside her instead of in front of her. Someday, I hope to grind my hips against hers in a sultry island dance, but not when she’s trembling under my palms.
“I would never soil the honor of your presence by taking advantage of your sweet nature, my lady,” I whisper onto her shoulder. The top of my head is at her eye level. To whisper in her ear, I’d have to crowd her space on my tiptoes.
“For your observant and kind nature, I am most grateful,” she replies, so quietly that I must read her lips. The secret smile we share is one I will tuck into my heart for my darkest of days.
The music kicks up to a lively three-quarter tune. I hop on my toes in traditional Irish fashion and glare at anyone who points out my authenticity. After a few rounds of eight counts, Catty follows my footwork. We are bouncing and laughing while our audience claps along. I weave my footwork into her space and out again. The movements bring our bodies close for mere seconds before leading us apart like a delicious tease. With her hands unfettered, she can shove me away or swat at my antics. Instead, I collect shy smiles, flirty eyelash flutters, and eyefuls of bouncing dairy.
I bet this is what heaven is like.
About the author:
Marilyn Barr lives in the wilds of Kentucky with her husband, son, and rescue cats. From medical school reject to spiritual healer, physics teacher to homeschool mom, and scientist to paranormal romance writer, she has a diverse collection of experiences which she sprinkles into her works. She has nine books with The Wild Rose Press in multiple romance subgenres from sweet, new adult romance to erotic, fantasy romance. She loves to place monstrous characters with hearts of gold in historical romances and her historical, paranormal romances have won the Crowned Heart Award, 2nd place in National Excellence in Story Telling (NEST) Contest, Imadjinn Award for Best Paranormal Romance, and Grand Finalist for the InD’Tale Magazine’s RONE Award. When engaging in the real world, you can find her with the Kentuckiana Romance Writers as President-Elect, volunteering with her son’s Special Olympics teams, or dancing around her kitchen. She is a sucker (haha) for cheesy horror movies, Italian food, punk music, black cats, bad puns, and all things witchy. For the latest Strawberry news and witchy tips, join her newsletter at www.marilynbarr.com
Connect with Marilyn Barr
www.marilynbarr.com ~ TikTok ~ Instagram ~ BookBub Author Profile ~ Amazon Author profile ~ Goodreads
