New Time-Travel Regency--AN IMPOSSIBLE ALLIANCE (excerpt PG)


At long last! My newest Time-Travel Regency, AN IMPOSSIBLE ALLIANCE, is now available.


Author: Susanne Marie Knight

Genre: Time-Travel Regency

Available electronically at and

Price: $3.99

Available in print at

Print: $9.99

Buy link: ebook


Lights, camera, action... time travel! Modern day Willa, on-site on a movie set in England, makes a wish and then wakes up in the year 1815. 


Eighteen-year-old Willa Berkeley lives in the shadow of her famous actress mother. Although Willa’s greatest hope is to be a ballet dancer, she agrees to her mother’s desire for her to journey to England and take a small acting part in a major film production. Once on-site at Highbridge Hall, she learns the horrendous reason behind her mother’s “request.” Distraught, she makes a wish for happiness at the Hall’s supposedly enchanted lake. When morning comes, Willa is still at Highbridge Hall, however the film’s crew are no longer around. What in the world happened?


Ian Laydon, the Earl of Wrexham, returns to his father, the Marquess of Dunhaven’s, estate, Highbridge Hall, after an exhausting tour of duty mediating at the Congress of Vienna. His father wants Ian to marry a neighbor’s daughter, Arabella. Ian is a dutiful son; he plans to propose but his heart is unengaged. He wishes he could have a marriage as loving as the one his parents have. Oddly enough, right after his wish, he comes across an enigmatic young woman sitting against the granite bridge in front of him. Can she possibly be the answer to his wish?

Scene Set-Up:

Misunderstandings abound! Ian Laydon returns to his ancestral home and believes the woman he finds by the enchanted lake is his neighbor’s daughter--and soon-to-be his intended--Arabella Carswell. However, it’s Willa Berkeley who wakes up after a wish at the enchanted lake. She believes she is in the middle of a film shoot with actors rehearsing their lines.


Ian smoothed his fingertips over Arabella’s soft-as-velvet cheek, and then he moved in closer. He had no choice; he was drawn to the honey of her lips. Catching her gaze, he held it and sent her an unspoken message. He wanted to taste those lips. Would she allow him the privilege? In truth, they had never exchanged a kiss before.

She gasped.

His heartbeat quickened, and he leaned in to accomplish his goal. “There is no need to stand on ceremony, my dear.” He inhaled more of her floral perfume. “After all, we are almost engaged, are we not?”

She stepped away from his touch and took another gulp of air. “I-I haven’t read the script yet. Are you... are you supposed to be my fiancé?”

What an interesting way to phrase their connection. He took her right hand and, delighting in the feel of her, kissed each of her fingertips. “I am if you say yes, my dear.”

“Oh!” She pulled her hand away, and then struck it against her delicate breast. “Goodness, I had no idea. I mean, no one told me what I’m supposed to do.”

She darted her gaze wildly about as if planning her escape. Indeed he was reminded of a trapped animal.

“So sorry,” she panted. “I-I’ve got to get back.” She quickly turned in the Hall’s direction.

He did not remember Arabella as being missish. Indeed, she had always seemed forward.

But that did not signify. People had a tendency to change. He blocked her path. “Stay, my dear. And please, forgive me. You are correct, of course. My apologies. I have not followed the proper procedures.”

Placing his arm through hers, he then headed for the lake, taking her acquiescence for granted. “Is Lord Carswell at the Hall?”

Her lower lip trembled. “I don’t know.” She looked skittish, but she did follow him.

“Never fear, I shall talk with him. Get his permission. Just a formality, I am assured. I daresay he has been longing for this event ever since you were born.” Ian lifted an eyebrow as he looked over at her. “I was under the impression that you were longing for it, as well.”

Even through the fringe of hair on her forehead, he could see her own eyebrows stretched high. She was puzzled. Why was that?

The beauty of the lake distracted him. Perhaps it would soothe her as well. Pulling her with him, he stood on the sandy shore and watched a family of mallards noisily float on the surface. As he did not have treats for them, they sailed past. Once the ducks were out of range, he picked up a stone and hurled it out onto the water. It skimmed and skipped on the surface, and then sank with a plunk.

“There.” He turned to her. “I feel better. Would you care to try it?”

She wrinkled her finely sculpted nose. “No. I don’t understand any of this. Is this part of the script? Are you and I suppose to--”

“Supposed to what?” She looked so desirable, he leaned over and nuzzled his chin against her well-formed ear. This close to her, he was lost indeed. “Supposed to kiss? I have been wanting to kiss you, my dear.”

He took a great liberty. He knew he did. But as he had told her, they were almost engaged. What would be the harm? Before she had a chance to slip away, he curved his arm around her and pulled her even closer, enjoying her feminine feel against his chest.

“Allow me the pleasure, my moppet,” he murmured. Then his lips touched hers.

So soft, so pliant, so wonderfully sweet. He tightened his hold and traced his tongue over the fullness of her lips.

For a moment, he had her. She did not move. She was his. The next second, she jerked away.

Her green eyes flashed fire. “No! You’re not that... that slimy goat of a director, are you?” 


Happy Reading!


Susanne Marie Knight

Read outside the box: award-winning Romance Writing With A Twist! 

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Published today. Bargain Box-set of 6 full-length medieval historical romances ONE PERFECT KNIGHT

 #NEW! #BOXSET 2000 PAGES! 6 #novels 6 #medievalromanceauthors

ONE PERFECT KNIGHT UK #christmasgiftideas #bargain #publishedtoday #medievalhistoricalromance #free with #KindleUnlimited

Blurb and excerpt from my novel, THE SNOW BRIDE, one of the 6 novels within the box-set.

The Snow Bride


She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?


Book One of The Knight and the Witch



England, winter, 1131


Elfrida, spirited, caring and beautiful, is also alone. She is the witch of the woods and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?



In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.






Elfrida stirred sluggishly, unable to remember where she was. Her back ached, and the rest of her body burned. She opened her eyes and sat up with a jerk, thinking of Christina.



Her head felt to be bobbing like an acorn cup in a stream, and her vision swam. As she tried to swing her legs, her sense of dizzy falling increased, becoming worse as she closed her eyes. She lashed out in the darkness, her flailing hands and feet connecting with straw, dusty hay, and ancient pelts.


“Christina?” she hissed, listening intently and praying now that the monster had brought her to the same place it had taken her sister.


She heard nothing but her own breath, and when she held that, nothing at all.


“Christina?” Fearing to reach out in this blackness that was more than night and dreading what she might find, Elfrida forced herself to stretch her arms. She trailed her fingers out into the ghastly void, tracing the unseen world with trembling hands.


Her body shook more than her hands, but she ignored the shuddering of her limbs, closed her eyes like a blind man, and searched.


She lay on a pallet, she realized, full of crackling, dry grass. When she scented and tasted the air, there was no blood. She did not share the space with grisly corpses.


I am alone and unfettered. Now her heart had stopped thudding in her ears, she listened again, hearing no one else. Chanting a charm to see in the dark, she tried again to shift her feet.


Light spilled into her eyes like scalding milk as a door opened and a massive figure lurched across the threshold. Elfrida launched herself at freedom, hurling a fistful of straw at the looming beast and ducking out for the light.


She fell instead, her legs buckling, her last sight that of softly falling snow.




* * * *




Magnus gathered the woman before she pitched facedown into the snow, returning her swiftly to the rough bed within the hut. Her tiny, bird-boned form terrified him. Clutching her was like ripping a fragile wood anemone up from its roots.


And she had fought him, wind-flower or not. She had charged at him.


“I wish, lass, that you would listen to me. I am not the Forest Grendel, nor have wish to be, nor ever have been.”


Just as earlier, in the clearing where he had first come upon her, a brilliant shock of life and color in a white, dead world, the woman gave no sign of hearing. She was cold again, freezing, while in his arms she had steamed with fever. He tugged off his cloak and bundled her into it, then piled his firewood and kindling onto the bare hearth.


A few strikes of his flints and he had a fire. He set snow to melt in the helmet he was using as a cauldron. He swept more dusty hay up from the floor and, sneezing, packed it round the still little figure.


No beast on two or four legs would hunt tonight, so that was one worry less. Finding this lean-to hut in the forest had been a godsend, but it would be cold.


Magnus went back out into the snow and led his horse into the hut, spreading what feed he had brought with him. He kept the door shut with his saddle, rubbed the palfrey down with the bay’s own horse blanket, and looked about for a lantern.


There was none, just as there were no buckets, nor wooden bowls hanging from the eaves. But, abandoned as it surely had been, the place was well roofed, and no snow swirled in through the wood and wattle walls. Whistling, Magnus dug through his pack and found a flask of ale, some hard cheese, two wizened apples, and a chunk of dark rye bread. He spoke softly to his horse, then looked again at the woman.


She was breathing steadily now, and her lips and cheeks had more color. By the glittering, rising fire he saw her as he had first in the forest clearing, an elf-child of beauty and grace, a willing sacrifice to the monster. Kneeling beside her, he longed to stroke her vivid red hair and kiss the small dimple in her chin. In sleep she had the calm, flawless face of a Madonna of Outremer and the bright locks of a Magdalene.


He had guessed who she was—the witch of the three villages, the good witch driven to desperation. Coming upon her in that snowfield, tied between two trees like a crucified child of fairy, his temper had been a black storm against the villagers for sparing their skins by flaying hers. Then he had seen her face, recognized that wild, stark, sunken-cheeked grief, seen the loose bonds and the terrible “feast,” and had understood.


Another young woman has been taken by the beast, someone you love.


She—Elfrida, that was her name, he remembered it now—Elfrida was either very foolish or very powerful, to offer herself as bait.


Lindsay Townsend

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New Fantasy Romance: (excerpt PG) THE AWAY PLACE




Author: Susanne Marie Knight

Genre: Fantasy Romance

Available electronically at and

Price: $3.99

Buy link:


In print at



Down-and-out Marta Jordan gets a second chance when the magical North and East Winds stage an intervention. Will she accept their challenge and to learn to love again?


THREE STRIKES AGAINST HER: Marta Jordan has hit rock bottom... and she’s only twenty-one. Her parents are killed in a tragic accident, her new husband steals from her, and a serious health diagnosis threatens her life. Marta is in desperate need of an intervention. Enter her fairy godmother and fairy godfather: Sola and Quill--the East and North Winds. Providing an enchanted cabin so Marta can heal, they also offer her a do-over... and a chance to walk on the wild side. Will Marta throw all caution to the wind (pun intended!) and listen to her magical helpers?

SECOND TIME’S A CHARM: Joe Noble is every woman’s Mr. Wrong. So much so that his wife not only divorced him, but their ten-year-old son, Nicky, too. Now only looking for a good time with no strings attached, Joe gets a wake-up call when the consequences of his irresponsible actions finally catch up to him. He has a choice: he can continue to drift or he can “man up” to become a good father, in addition to wooing and winning the woman of his heart, Marta.

BONUS: The fairytale, “The Princess’ Soulmate” is also included!

Scene Set-Up:

On hearing a student say his father calls her Ms. Jugs, substitute teacher Marta Jordan sets up a meeting with the father, Joseph Noble, to correct his son’s behavior. Mr. Noble is late to the classroom.


“Hey,” came a deep-timbered voice. A voice so distinctive it set off warning bells inside Marta. “Sorry I’m late.”

An almost identical version of Nicholas Noble--but twenty years older--walked into the classroom. An overhang of glossy dark hair fell onto the man’s lined forehead, a few days worth of stubble darkened his jaw, while the rest of his face was bronzed by sun and wind. An outdoor type of guy. Maybe he worked under blue skies for a living.

He obviously hadn’t given much though to dressing to make a good impression. His unbuttoned plaid shirt hung loose over worn blue jeans, his undershirt looked more grey than white, and his left running shoe was completely missing its shoelace.

When his warm brown--or was it hazel?--eyes looked at her though, her wits, to use a phrase, went begging. He was, in a word, gorgeous. She felt her mouth go slack.

The silence in the room hung heavily.

“Er, you’re Nicky’s teacher, aren’t you?” He tilted his head and ran his gaze up and down as if scrutinizing her from head to toe. “You’re awfully young.”

Such a peculiar tingling vibrated through to her inner core. Absolutely devastating. But when he blinked those devastatingly hypnotic eyes, reason returned.

Taking a steadying breath, she stood, squared her shoulders, and then held out her hand. “I’m Ms. Jordan.” She paused for effect. “Not Ms. Jugs.”

A barely detectable flush could be seen through his thick stubble. Obviously, he had the good sense to be embarrassed. One point in his favor.

He laughed a bit nervously as he shook her hand. “Ah, right. You know how boys can be. So, I’m Joe Noble. Good to meet you...?”

He wanted to know her first name. Ha! No way.

She gestured toward one of the student desk/chair combos in the front row of the classroom, right by her desk. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Noble.”

There. She’d put him in his place, clearly signaling that they were not on a first name basis.

He was a tall, lanky man, and now he was crammed into a miniature elementary school chair.

Sitting securely behind her desk, she smiled at his discomfort. “I regret that I had to call this meeting so soon after taking over the class from Mrs. Lillian, but I’m concerned about Nicholas.”

“Nicky?” The man shifted in the chair as if to get comfortable--which was impossible given the size of the furniture. He then used both hands to smooth back his thick hair. “What’s the young scrot, er, boy done now?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. “First, his reading level is below average. At the third grade level, in fact.

Letting that sink in, she then continued. “Second, when Nicholas does read, it’s inappropriate material.”

She removed a girly magazine from her desk drawer, held it up for him to see, and then set it down. “Nicholas tells me this is your subscription.”

The man’s gaze darted from the busty female model on the cover to her. He didn’t speak.

She tapped her foot. “Does your wife condone this kind of behavior, Mr. Noble?”

His mouth hardened. “She doesn’t condone anything, Ms. Jordan. We’re divorced. She left.”

Marta wasn’t thinking straight. Normally, she’d never say anything derogatory, especially to a parent. “Hmmn, I wonder why.”

Gracious! That just slipped out. Fortunately, the man didn’t take offense at her comment.



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Crowning Glories - My love of hair and how I use hair in my romances. Plus excerpts!

 I admit it. I have a 'thing' about hair in my writing.

Not in real life. My hair is brown going grey and tough. It goes its own way and if it's cut 'wrong' then it will spike. I have it cut short and leave it alone. We get along fine. But in my romance novels, I love hair.

What colour will the herone's hair be? How long? Wavy? Curly? I always like to imagine my main female character's hair. 

Many romance novels have blond or auburn haired heroines. Isabella, my heroine from my novella "Mistress Angel" is a spectacular blonde, with colouring that both attracts and also makes others eager to prey on her. I showed off her hair with a scene drawn from the historical records - in May 1357, the King of France was brought as a prisoner to London and paraded through the city in style. The goldsmiths, eager to be part of the show, positioned twelve beautiful maidens in golden cages above the street for them to toss flowers. I made my Isabella one of the maidens.

The gaudy troop of soldiers and knights, already shifting at a slow canter, settled into a meandering amble as the road through Cheapside broadened between the grander houses belonging to the members of the goldsmith's guild.
“Ici, là!” cried Prince Edward, sweeping a bejeweled gloved arm toward the upper storeys. Beside him, on his taller horse, the French king looked up and softly applauded. Stephen scanned the ridge tiles of the freshly-painted, gilded houses and glanced where the prince was pointing.
There she is. He smiled.
He recognized her instantly by the proud tilt of her head, her sweetly handsome profile and those glowing eyes, more compelling even than the luxuriant gold of her hair or her sumptuous costume.
Goldsmith’s garb and no glover’s girl for sure, he thought, reining in his horse and slowing to admire her the more as she shimmered above him like the evening star. Encased in a narrow cage of gold suspended above the cobbles, he saw that she was one of twelve maidens positioned high above the street, all caged, all lovely, but his gaze returned to her alone. Already the others seemed pale shadows, water ripples, echoes. But she is stunning. Above the roar of  blood in his ears he heard the ribald comments of Prince Edward and knew he also approved of her. 
By a mighty effort of will Stephen tore his attention away from this bewitching, naughty beauty and returned to scanning roofscapes. Still his eyes kept flitting back as he silently willed her to turn within her cage, to look out, to look back, to see him.
Know me, girl. Wonder at me, as I do at you. He was torn between admiration and a longing to kiss her thoroughly for her deception. Kissing you will be a sweet revenge.
She was tossing flowers, delicate metal posies of gold and silver that streaked the cobbles like flashing dewdrops or sun-flashed rain, pretty trinkets that the populace would certainly scramble for as soon as the nobles had passed. Still staring toward Westminster, although she must surely know by the mutter of the crowd that the foremost Prince of England and King of France rode right beneath her cage, she scattered another handful of golden petals, seemingly oblivious to the gasps of admiration. Silhouetted against the dark, smoke-stained jetty of the house, her slim body made a pleasing, subtle curve.

I kept in mind those aspects all the time I wrote of Isabella - and her hair.

Elfrida, the witch in my "The Snow Bride" is a red-head. This shows her supernatural and inner 
passion and fire, both of which she uses to lure a dangerous adverary closer.

She would not dwell on what could go wrong, and she fought down her night terrors over Christina, lest they become real through her thoughts. She lifted up her head and stared above the webbing of treetops to the bright stars beyond, reciting a praise chant to herself. She was a warrior of magic, ready to ensnare and defeat the beast.
“I have loosened my hair as a virgin. I am dressed in a green gown, unworn before today. My shoes are made of the softest fur, my veil and sleeves are edged with gold, and my waist is belted in silver. There is mutton for my feast, and dates and ginger, wine and mead and honey. I am a willing sacrifice. I am the forest bride, waiting for my lord—” 
Her voice broke. Advent was meant to be a time of fasting, and she had no lord. None of the menfolk of Yarr would dare to take Elfrida the wisewoman and witch to be his wife. She knew the rumors—men always gossiped more than women—and all were depressing in their petty spitefulness. They called her a scold because she answered back.
“I need no man,” she said aloud, but the hurt remained. Was she not young enough, fertile enough, pretty enough?
Keep to your task, Elfrida reminded herself. You are the forest bride, a willing virgin sacrifice.
She had tied herself between two tall lime trees, sometimes struggling against her loose bonds as if she could not break free. She could, of course, but any approaching monster would not know that, and she wanted to bait the creature to come close—close enough to drink her drugged flask of wine and eat her drugged “wedding” cakes. Let him come near so she could prick him with her knife and tell him, in exquisite detail, how she could bewitch him. He would fear her, oh yes, he would...
She heard a blackbird caroling alarms and knew that something was coming, closing steadily, with the stealth of a hunter. She strained on her false bonds, peering into the semidarkness, aware that the fire would keep wild creatures away. Her back chilled as she sensed an approach from downwind, behind her, and as she listened to a tumble of snow from a nearby birch tree, she heard a second fall of snow from a pine closer by. Whoever, whatever, was creeping up was somehow shaking the trees, using the snowfalls as cover to disguise its own movement.
A cunning brute, then, but she was bold. In one hand she clutched her small dagger, ready. In her other, she had the tiny packet of inflammables that she now hurled into the fire.
“Come, husband!” she challenged, as the fire erupted into white-hot dragon tongues of leaping flame, illuminating half the clearing like a noonday sun. “Come now!” 
She thrust her breasts and then her hips forward, aping the actions that wives had sometimes described to her when they visited her to ask for a love philter. She shook her long, red hair and kissed the sooty, icy air. “Come to me!”
She saw it at the very edge of her sight—black, huge, a shadow against the flames, off to her side, and now a real form, swooping around from the tree line to her left to face her directly. She stared across the crackling fire at the shape and bit down on the shriek rising up her throat.
The beast stepped through the fire, and she saw its claw reaching for her. She heard a click, off to her right, but still kept watching the claw, even as the fire was suddenly gutted and dead, all light extinguished.
Darkness, absolute and terrifying, smothered her, and she was lost.

Of course, the battered crusader knight Sir Magnus, hero of "The Snow Bride" is entranced by Elfrida and by her hair.

It's a sweet vice but I have to be careful. Sometimes I have have my characters spending too much time 'fiddling' with their own or others' hair - stroking, patting, tweaking, adding flowers. My heroes are usually as hair-fixated as I am and sometimes I need to remove some of their petting.

Why a dark-haired hero? I've never quite understood that romance 'guide'. Randal in my story Unicorn Summer (One of the novellas in One Midsummer Knight) is blond, a sunshine lad. (Again, I use the colouring as my own reminder and key to character, both for Randal and the Unicorn who is also an important part of this story.  I've written dark-haired heroes but to me it's not an essential.

Ffion shook herself.  “I care not for such trifles as looks,” she answered, in her head, “Though he is handsome.” He was sinewy and lean and his rough-cut yellow hair was as lush as summer butter,  flowing over his broad shoulders as Unicorn’s mane had spilled down his flanks. Catching glimpses of a green tunic and dark leggings beneath his chain mail, she noted the good quality cloth, of older dyes, she thought, but well maintained. Overall he seemed honest and open, and he had a very shapely mouth.
What do I care about his lips! He is clean-shaven, what of it? Aloud, she added, “Will you come with me, for company?”
It was a grudging invitation but Sir Randal smiled and said, “We shall discover how these feathers work.”  He tied his ancient helmet to his belt and offered her his arm.

In my latest novel, "The Master Cook and the Maiden" I have the hero, Swein, wearing a cap for quite a while, teasing the heroine and the reader as to what colour is hair is, a small, sweet mystery.

No one will bother looking for me, Alfwen almost confessed, but the night drew close and she did not want to admit she was friendless, powerless. “I can ride in your waggon?” she asked, spotting the same less than a sword’s length from her. I must have been deep in shock to have missed that and a mule arriving.
“I have some old pottage for your dog, too,” came the genial reply.
He swept her onto the back of the waggon, handed her Teazel and warned, “Stay away from the firebox, or the crocks therein. I have hot food going.”
“My thanks,” Alfwen whispered, praying her belly did not rumble at the thought of more dumplings. She met his bright eyes again, briefly wondering what colour his hair might be under his close-fitting cap. “Might I know your name, sir?”

Later, to show their developing closeness, Alfwen washes Swein's hair and she finally discovers its colour, length and texture.

To celebrate brown hair, in "Dark Maiden" my female exorcist Yolande has long, brown hair:

He saw her face change, becoming as still as a mask. Then she blinked. “I do understand it.  My thanks to you, master Geraint. How may I aid you in return? Are you thirsty or hungry?”
“Ale is always welcome,” he answered quickly, “but for now the pleasure of your company on the road will be more than payment.”
She raised her pretty eyebrows at that. The rest of her was  pretty too , if such a plain word could be used for such exotic looks. By “dark” he had expected black hair, which Yolande had—long, shimmering waves of the stuff, very clean but caught in a simple clasp at the back of her slender neck as if she had no time for any fuss. Her eyes were either brown or black—he could not be sure—but they were clear and steady as if she looked straight to the heart of things.
To the heart of me, for sure. Geraint liked women, loved their smell and feel and their cockeyed way of looking at the world. For all her man’s clothing, Yolande was very much a woman, and a love worthy of Solomon. Her skin was a beautiful shade of bronze, smooth as polished wood, and her eyelashes were double-lashed. She had a narrow face and elegant bones but there was a strength in her, character and soul together. He could imagine her besting devils.
For the rest…the performer in him knew at once that she should be in bright colors, reds and yellows and blues, not the drab serge of a thatcher. If she was in his company for long—and he intended she would be—he would tempt her into a brighter manner of dress.
For she has the glory of the evening in her. She wins me already and does not know it.
“I do not chatter,” she said, unaware of his inner tumult. “I have a way to go.”
Better still. He admired how she did not admit where she was headed. “For today then?” He lifted his hands, palms up. “To the nearest house of honest folk, who will let you sleep by their hearth and me in their hayloft?”
“You wish to squire me to safety?”
“For the pleasure of—”
“For the pleasure of  my company. Yes, Geraint the Welshman, you said that already.” But she was smiling as she spoke and he knew she would agree.
“Shall I carry this?” He motioned to the cross. “You have your bow and bag already, and it will be no trouble.”
After a moment she strode out like a youth, leaving him to catch up. Geraint admired her graceful gait and did not hurry. He wanted their day to last.
By then I may have won another day in her company.

I like to use hair to confound stereotypes. One of my heroines, is blonde - but she would never have a "blonde" moment. She is a dangerous, calculating, kindly, devious.

So I have fun with hair. I've had curly haired heroes and heroines, long haired heroes and heroines, shorn heroes. I've had heroines caught by their hair - one is trapped by her long hair while trying to escape. 

Next time (maybe) I will have to celebrate the naked scalp. That, for me, would be a challenge.

(Photograph by courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

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Juliet’s Diary: My Secret Plague Journal, The Lesbian Diaries Book 4 by Giselle Renarde

Juliet’s Diary
My Secret Plague Journal
Series: The Lesbian Diaries
Book: 4
Word Count: 45,000
Release Date: May 21, 2020
ISBN: 9780463259344
PRINT ISBN: 9798651142668

Juliet is young and in love. Problem is, there’s a pandemic gripping the planet. She knows she’s not supposed to leave the house, but her lust for her girlfriend makes her defiant. How can Juliet get close to Romi if she has to stay away?

Lesbian fiction from award-winning queer Canadian author Giselle Renarde.

Buy Now from Smashwords:
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I never imagined things would escalate so quickly.

Seems like only days ago it was like, “Oh, there’s this virus halfway across the world, sucks to be them.”

Now it’s everywhere.

Now it’s us.

Or, that’s what the news is saying. That’s what the politicians are saying. That’s what my parents are saying.

It’s everywhere. It’s bad. It’s gonna get worse.

Stay home.

So yeah, okay, maybe if you’re eighty. But what if you’re eighteen or nineteen? Who’s gonna get sick and die at my age?

This virus has radically fucked up my first year at university. Classes have already shifted online. Oh well. It’s just as easy to skip an online class as it is to skip one in person. Maybe even easier. As long as I can find someone who’ll sell me exam questions, I’m set.

Worked in high school. That’s how I met Romi. She’s so smart. And she needed the money.

Not that I care about my education. I only enrolled in university because Dear Old Dad promised to pay me fifty grand if I didn’t move out right away. Or, to put it less succinctly, he didn’t want me moving in with Romi and her whole consortium.

So I didn’t move out.

I stayed put.

And look where that bright decision landed me.

Buy JULIET'S DIARY from Smashwords:
Google Play:


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