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Tag: Lizzi Tremayne

I only sought a lady’s maid… and now this…

Such goings-on in the manor of Lord and Lady M–!

I had it from Lady M– herself!

A faint rapping came upon the door. The soft voice of Emma, the parlour maid, followed. “My Lady?”

“Enter,” I called.

Emma entered and curtsied to me. “Pardon me, My Lady, but the young woman is here about the position. Would you like to see her in the morning room?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll be there presently.” With a sigh, I stood from my seat at the desk and stretched, glancing around my bedroom with a wince. Dresses, chemises, ribbons seemed to have strewn themselves over every available surface. I was sorry for Hannah, my maid, but she truly was not well, and the trip away with her daughter would do her the world of good. I desperately needed a lady’s maid.

Never mind, perhaps this one will be suitable.

I straightened my bodice and patted my hair back into position. Earlier this morning, Emma had tried her best with my coiffure, but she had never been trained as a lady’s maid.

C’est la vie.

My husband Lord M—’s ancestors frowned down from their portraits at the picture I must make with my less than salubrious attire, but I was, indeed, trying to remedy that situation this morning.

Emma stood beside the closed door to the morning room, curtsied and opened it. I entered, and the portal clicked closed behind me.

The girl, dressed in a tidy shirt and skirt, stood beside the fire in the grate, her pelisse over her arm. She curtsied, then looked directly at me, which I found refreshing.

“Good morning, and you would be Rachael,” I said, as I seated myself in one of the comfortable French chairs.

“Yes, My Lady. Good morning to you. Thank you for seeing me today.”

“Mmm. You understand I seek a lady’s maid. Have you a character?”

She handed over the single sheet of paper, folded and sealed. I glanced at the seal. Sutherland, no less.

“And what was your position at Sutherland’s?”

“If it pleases you, My Lady, I was a parlour maid there, but me mum trained me to be a lady’s maid since I was young.” She dropped her eyes to her wool-lined pelisse and the fingers of one hand crushed her carefully pleated skirt as she stood waiting for my next question.

“And you do not wish to continue as a parlour maid?”

She swallowed hard and looked back at me. “No, if it pleases you. I wish to better myself, to honour the memory of my mother.”

“You’re well-spoken. Your mother’s doing?”

She nodded. “Yes, My Lady.”

“And why do you wish to leave the employ of the Sutherlands?”

She took a deep breath and tightened her jaw. She finally answered. “Do you wish to hear the acceptable answer to that question or the truth?”

I smiled at her. The girl had gumption. “I appreciate being given the choice,” I said, with a wry grin. “The truth, please. Always.”

“It’s to be the truth, then.” She tightened her jaw for a moment. “I’d aspired to the position of lady’s maid there, but one young Master Sutherland… he was a bit free with his hands on more than one occasion, and… well, luckily, I was blessed to be holding a hot warming pan in mine, and… no one was injured, but the noise was tremendous.” Her lips twitched, but she kept a straight face. “Several other servants rushed to the room. I escaped and stayed as far away as possible from the young master. Fortunately, or unfortunately,” the girl looked down at me with a grimace, “on the same day, a young girl from the estate, Sofia, came into service as a tweenie.” She looked at me again, her brow wrinkled.

“Go on, please,” I said.

“Not only has her whole family been sent out to the coast in the Clearances, but Sofia was waiting for her young Robert, the son of the old Tacksman, and the love of her life, to return from his military service, but, well, things have gone badly for the young miss. Very badly. I know it is just a matter of time before…. well, before she is dismissed… and then his attentions could return to me. I’m a good girl and don’t want to go that way, if it pleases you, My Lady.”

I frowned at the character in my hands, as yet unopened.

Was there any point opening it?


Author’s note:

For those of you who have read the first book in The Long Trails series, A Long Trail Rolling, this is the first of Scotty’s stories. As you may remember, Scotty is the trading post proprietor in A Long Trail Rolling, my award winning debut novel. Scotty’s real name is Robert, not Scotty, but you’ll have to read the as-yet unwritten books to find out the reasons he changed his name!

I invite you to wait to hear the rest of Scotty and Sophia’s story in the boxed set by the Bluestocking Belles, coming later this year!

Meanwhile, check out my other books on my website!

Thanks so much for coming by today!


Lizzi Tremayne


About Lizzi

Lizzi is one of the newest Bluestocking Belles!

Lizzi grew up riding wild in the Santa Cruz Mountain redwoods, became an equine veterinarian at UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine and practiced in the Gold and Pony Express Country of California before emigrating to New Zealand.

Busy raising two boys, farming, and running her own equine veterinary practice, she never thought she’d sit down long enough to write more than an article. A serious injury, however, changed all that, and planted her in one place long enough to jump-start her new career as an author!

With Lizzi’s debut historical romance, A Long Trail Rolling, she was: Finalist 2013 RWNZ Great Beginnings; Winner 2014 RWNZ Pacific Hearts Award for the best unpublished full manuscript; Winner 2015 RWNZ Koru Award for Best First Novel and third in the 2015 RWNZ Koru Long Novel section; and Finalist, 2015 Best Indie Book Award. Her newest novels and novellas, all released in 2017, are currently entered in more contests, and she’s working on her next novel!

When she’s not writing, she’s swinging a rapier or shooting a bow in medieval garb, riding or driving a carriage, playing in the garden on her hobby farm, singing, cooking, practicing as an equine veterinarian or teaching high school science. She is multiply published and awarded in special interest magazines and veterinary periodicals.

Lizzi is new to the Belles, but she’s loving the friendships she’s already developing with the rest of the ladies. She adores how they’re so progressive, organized, and fun. Best of all, they are all willing to put themselves out there, together, to achieve more, create more, than would be possible going it alone.

Lizzi loves to connect with her readers!

You can learn more about Lizzi and her books here or on these social media sites:

Subscribe to Lizzi’s Newsletter (with a free gift!)

Subscribe to Lizzi’s Blog

Friend Lizzi on Facebook

Follow Lizzi on Twitter

Follow Lizzi on Bookbub

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Email Lizzi

Visit Lizzi’s Author Website


Sign Me Up!  

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Heard on the Boardwalk of Camp Floyd

Camp Floyd, Utah, 1860

“Did you hear about the other night at the saloon?” Miss Mora whispered, then forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes at a tall, dark, and handsome passing them on the boardwalk.

“No, whatever happened?” Miss Alamander, dressed in blue, sidled closer to her friend, if you could call her that, and together they took refuge behind her fan. Miss Mora’s lips made a moue at the back of the man who had just passed them without sparing the ladies, in their glittering (if slightly stained) dresses, another glance.

“I’d gone with Mr. Sorley for an evening of fun and cards at his cabin, entertaining him and his friends,” Miss Mora gave the other woman a wicked smile, “and—“

“I’ll bet you made a pretty penny for that night’s work,” Miss Alamander cut in, her lips tight.

She just smirked.

“Okay.” The woman in blue crossed her arms and waited, but Miss Mora just stood with one brow raised. Her curiosity eventually got the better of her, even over her annoyance at Miss Mora’s good fortune at the potential expense of hers. “What happened?” she finally asked.

“You wouldn’t think it, would you, but that big blond brute of a man, Jackson—”

“Yes?” she breathed, egging Miss Mora on.

“If you’d let me finish,” she harrumphed, “Jackson stumbled into the saloon late last night, drunk as a skunk, and…” She broke off and smiled over her fan at a man passing by, then resumed, “he stormed across the room toward this boy, and he so young he hadn’t a hair on his face.”


“Well, the young lad had his hat on, a big ten-galón hat, you know, like the caballeros from Mexico wear?”

“Get on with it,” Miss Alamander said crossly. We don’t have all day.” She smiled at a filthy man riding his horse past them, his stench following him, and swallowed hard.

“That boy, he got the best of him!” Miss Mora whispered.

Miss Alamander looked up from the blue bodice that just barely covering her bosom and blinked. “But no one gets the best of Mr. Jackson! That’s impossible, how did he do it?” She hissed as Miss Mora turned away from her to make eyes at a man walking down the street leading his mules not a yard away from them.

The gentleman’s accoutrements bespoke his success in the goldfields—not only his exquisite, if dusty, clothing, but the fine wood and leather cases piled high over his pickaxes, shovels, and pans. His waistcoat alone must have cost more than her wages for a month. She gulped and took a breath deep enough to nearly bust herself out of her bodice, but he never looked her way as Miss Mora strode boldly toward him.

“And how might you be today, sir?” she asked him in a throaty tone, somehow wiggling her top half at the same time she floated off the boardwalk and through the mud.

“All the better for seeing you,” he said, with a chuckle. “Will you ladies be here long?”

At least this time, he included Miss Alamander in his glance.

“That depends upon what you have in mind, sir,” Miss Mora continued, as she slithered up to him and stood between him and Miss Alamander, as if on purpose. Her gliding was made all the more difficult by the half-foot of slop which the locals deigned to call a “street” here in Camp Floyd. The soldiers didn’t seem to mind, but the ladies did.

“What do you say you come along with me for awhile,” he said, then nodded at Miss Alamander, still standing on the boards, “and then you can rejoin your friend afterward?”

The woman in blue took a deep breath and unclenched her hands and smoothed the silk down over her abdomen and joined them demurely before her. She gritted her teeth and forced a smile at him, then turned to face the other men passing her by as the stores closed for the day.

No one was up for a tussle at this early hour, at least the locals, and the soldiers would be at their mess up at the fort, so Miss Alamander cooled her heels for what seemed a month and fought back a smile.

This was going to be fun.

She schooled her features to look impatient as Miss Mora finally returned, a bit less tidy than when she’d left. She was missing a few hairpins, but wore a big smile. She jingled as she hopped up onto the boardwalk.

“So stop looking like the cat that ate the cream,” Miss Alamander said, pursing her lips, “and tell me! How did a mere boy best big old Jackson, especially when he was in his cups?”

“He cut him.” Miss Mora gave her a sideways smile. “Jackson stormed toward him, and you know how big he is, but this boy, his waist no bigger around than that brute’s leg, just stood up at his table, cool as a cucumber, knocked his glass on a table, even with his arms held behind his back by one of Jackson’s henchmen, and cut him. Sliced his arms and then those of the despicable man behind him, and bolted out the door! No one’s seen the boy since.”

“No.” Miss Alamander did her best to look shocked, but it would be nothing to what she was about to see on her friend’s face. She couldn’t wait.

“Yes,” Miss Mora said, nodding her head emphatically.

“You don’t say,” Miss Alamander said. “Now I remember. I heard something about that… I heard it wasn’t a boy at all… it was a girl!

Miss Mora’s chin dropped until it came to rest on her ample and exposed bosom. For once, she was speechless.

Wow, what a woman, if it was one! Who could she be? You’ll have to read A Long Trail Rolling to find out!

About the Book

Camp Floyd

A Long Trail Rolling

She didn’t expect to become a target…but she is one now.

Just orphaned, Aleksandra holds the family secret her father died for. She hides by joining the Pony Express as a boy, where an alluring Californio sees through her guise and offers help—and more.

Xavier’s conviction that women cannot be trusted is deeply rooted in the reasons he left his birthright. But Alex is like no woman he has ever met.

With the killer getting closer and an Indian war brewing, Alex and Xavier must decide whom they can trust, and what they really want.

Lizzi is one of the newest Bluestocking Belles!


A Long Trail Rolling is the first book in

The Long Trails series, out now!

Find the book here:

#ReadforFreeonKindleUnlimited or buy it here in paperback or digital on Amazon

Lizzi loves to connect with her readers!

You can learn more about Lizzi and her books here or on these social media sites:

Subscribe to Lizzi’s Newsletter (with a free gift!)

Subscribe to Lizzi’s Blog

Friend Lizzi on Facebook

Follow Lizzi on Twitter

Follow Lizzi on Bookbub

Follow Lizzi on Instagram

Follow Lizzi on Goodreads

Follow Lizzi on Pinterest

Follow Lizzi on YouTube

Email Lizzi

Visit Lizzi’s Author Website



Sign Me Up!  

Sign up for Lizzi’s newsletter here, with a free gift!


Mysterious strangers at the Biblio

On Saturday last, your intrepid Teatime Tattler reporter dared the hallowed halls of the Biblio Club, a quiet and discreet gentleman’s club just off St James Street. It had come to our attention that two new authors had been added to the ranks of our benefactors, the Bluestocking Belles, and that their characters might, or might not, be out on the town to celebrate.

Having managed to gain entrance, I took a seat in a shadowy corner and awaited developments.

No sooner was I settled, than the door opened again. A captain in full dress uniform entered. “Thank you Crosby. Beastly night out there. I’ll be glad of some whisky by the fire, please.”

Before crossing the room, the captain looked around, watchful eyes cataloguing the room. And while he did, another newcomer, a blond man with a gold earring and a slight limp, took the place the captain had marked as his own.

One of the chairs by the fire was already occupied, by a fair man in full evening dress: His coat and breeches—of a midnight-blue silk velvet, with a deep band of embroidery on each side on the cuffs—fitted him as if painted on his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Snow-white lace foamed at his neck and cuffs, matching his pure white stockings with silver clocking. His waistcoat was embroidered, near-painted, in a riotous multi-colour pattern on a salmon pink ground to match the roses in the coat’s embroidery.

The black armband was an incongruous touch. The ton was used to it now, and regarded it as an affectation. But the Marquess of Aldridge sincerely mourned the loss of his mistress.

A glint of gold in the firelight was not normally the cause of second glance in this place, but when it dangled from from an ear – of a man, no less – it caused eyebrows to raise.

The blond-headed man ignored it all, his slight limp almost imperceptible as he moved through the room with the aid of an ebony cane. He rested his hand lightly on the silver pommel. Those who knew Captain Hardacre knew it was swordstick, but he was not challenged, not on a night like this.

Without a by-your-leave, the newcomer took a chair by the fire opposite the young dandy with the rose embroidered coat. At a glance the two men might have been mistaken for twins. Hardacre lifted his chin and caught the other man’s attention.

“Dear chap, you must give me the name of your tailor.”

“I would,“ Aldridge replied, “But then I would have to kill you. Brandy, dear chap?”

Hardacre inclined his head to accept.

His palm rubbed the pommel of his cane, a proxy for the ache in his leg. The jewellery on his fingers caught Aldridge’s attention – particularly the one on his index finger. It was a ring of silver mounted with a square carnelian, blood red in hue. Into it had been set a gold scimitar.

“An unusual jewel,” the man commented.

“I took it from the man I killed.”

“An easier trophy to wear than a shrunken head,” Aldridge replied.

Hardacre grinned. “Perhaps we’ve sparred enough to be introduced. I’m Captain Christopher Hardacre.”

“Aldridge,” the other said, returning the grin and extending a hand.

The door opened again, letting in two gentlemen. “Rather impressive company isn’t it?” The Earl of Chadbourne looked up at his friend, but the Marquess’s ice blue eyes focused on the officer standing the far side of the room. “What is it Richard?” Chadbourne asked.

“A newcomer,” he murmured studying the man with as if he might probe the secrets of his soul.

“But not unknown to you, I’ll warrant.” The Earl shook his head. Richard Hayden, Marquess of Glenaire, knew everything, or so it seemed.

“Did you doubt it, Will? I wonder what Campion is doing in London?” the Marquess said. He handed his hat to the doorman and set out to find out.

“Thank you Crosby,” the earl said, following suit before following his friend.

Richard Campion halted in the act of taking a seat in a quiet corner. “Glenaire?” His gaze searched the room, noting the other men present then fixed on the Marquess. Campion started forward, meeting the other man more than half way. “By all that’s holy.” He clasped Glenaire about the shoulders in a rare public display. “What devilment has brought you away from the lofty heights of White’s?”

“I find the Biblio more conducive to quiet conversation and the clientele most interesting, present company included. Are you a guest tonight or have you obtained a membership?”

Garrick of Clan MacLaren fell through the doorway, collided with a well-dressed figure who had opened the door, and fell upon the floor. Laughter rumbled from the man who followed him, the man’s hand extended to assist Garrick to his feet.

“Easy now, Garrick. The first few minutes once you have traveled through time can be startling,” Dristan of Berwyck laughed as he slapped Garrick upon his back.

Garrick gasped. “Ye canna be tellin’ me we are like those future gals that continue to show up at yer gates, me laird.”

“Aye…” Dristan mused aloud looking the doorman up and down. “I can see I have once more traveled to some point in the future.”

“Ye have been here afore?” Garrick asked.

“Although I did not care for it overly much, Riorden de Deveraux and I slipped through time long ago but ’twas to some bookshop and an inn.”

Garrick crossed himself. “How shall we return to Berwyck, my laird?”

“These things seem to work themselves out. For now, let us join the other men by the fire. If I recall they serve a find brandy.”

Garrick was unsure if he wished to enter the room or go out the way he came in fear of where else he might end up. He made to follow Dristan ’til the man closing the door spoke up.

“My lord, perhaps you would like to leave your cape with me,” he suggested.

“Your name,” Dristan inquired with his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Crosby… at your service.”

Dristan took the cloak from his shoulders and nodded to Garrick to do the same. “I expect its return upon our departure.”

Crosby nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

“Come along, Garrick. Let us join the other men for a drink.”

“Aye, me laird,” Garrick replied. He hesitated but a moment afore he took a deep breath, handed his garment to Crosby and stepped forward wondering what this future world had in store for him.

Aldridge, who had met Dristan before, raised his brandy glass to him, and nodded, then introduced him and Hardacre. Soon the two medieval gentlemen, the sea raider, and the marquess were sharing tales and brandy.

A dark man, tall and moustached, walked in, gazing around the dimly-lit room as he softly closed the door.

Still frozen from his ride, although he’d already groomed and bedded Charro down in a stallion box, Xavier moved closer to the fire and turned his back to the roaring blaze, his fingers spread wide behind him to better warm them.

“I’d appreciate a little of that warmth, sir,” Aldridge said to the man in the fringed leather coat – no, a shirt surely – who had just blocked all the heat from the fire by standing in front of it.

He raised an amused eyebrow when the man turned. “Aldridge,” he introduced himself. “And my new friend Captain Hardacre. You would be?”

“Arguello, Xavier Arguello, of Rancho de las Pulgas”

Xavier reached out a hand and Aldridge returned his firm grip, then shook the captain’s as well.

“From Spain? How fares your land under the invader?”

“No,“ Xavier grinned, and perused their surroundings, “from what I daresay would have been nearer to your American colonies. From California. As to invasions, we haven’t had much of an invasion since the Americans took it from Mexico, but there are an awful lot of previous gold seekers now claiming land… some of it ours… and Southerners looking to make it Confederate… but you don’t want to hear about that now.” Xavier ducked his head in apology.

Aldridge glanced at Glenaire, who was watching them from across the room. Interesting, but more in Glenaire’s field of expertise than his own.

Richard cast Glenaire a glance before shifting his stance to more closely observe the newcomer. He’d read about the Spanish colonies on the west coast of the New World, but he’d never met anyone from that location.

Glenaire considèrs his options. He planned to feel Campion out about the Duke of Margis, but reconsidered in the face of this gentleman from California. The Biblio frequently had visitors from unusual places—and times—but could this one be trusted? Xavier caught his look and nodded, then turned toward him.

Richard raised his brow at Glenaire who shrugged then sat. Waiting as Aruguello approached, Richard smiled and gestured to an empty chair between him and Glenaire. “Please join us.”

“Thank you, Gentlemen,” Xavier said, sitting and awaiting developments.

An amiable gentleman joined them and handed a goblet of brandy to Glenaire before taking a seat. I’m Chadbourn. I understand you gentlemen are new to our lovely club. Let me be one of the first to welcome you. My friends (he nods toward Glenaire) call me Will.

Xavier stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for the welcome, Will. I’m Xavier. It’s been a long… ride, I think” he said, with a furrow of his brow. “I seem to have fallen into a different time, as I once did, when I met… ahh… her Grace the Duchess of Haverford, I believe it was. Have any of you made her acquaintance, or have missed her time altogether?”

Richard introduced himself and nodded to Chadbourn. “I’m sorry to say I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting the Duchess of Haverford, though I know of her, of course.”

Will grined. “Once you meet the Duchess of Haverford, you don’t forget her. Eleanor is a formidable woman.” He raised his glass to Aldridge, who was listening without shame, and grinned back.

Richard scowled. “Certainly her reputation is better than the only duchess I know personally.”

Glenaire raises a haughty eyebrow. “Do tell…”

Richard leaned toward Glenaire and spoke in an undertone. “I know I can count on your discretion. Perhaps we could talk later about her Grace of Stonegreave.”

Glenaire nodded imperceptibly. The analytical engine that is his brain, filed the contact away. This man may be useful.

“Senor Arguello, tell us of this California. What is life like on your ranchero?” Campion asked. He’d just as soon not have duchesses as the topic of conversation lest the name of one particular duchess arise, as it always seemed to do. Even after several years in retirement at Stonegreave, talk of Marielle was still of interest to society.

“The Rancho de las Pulgas, it is called. South of San Francisco. My wife and I have just returned there… it’s been quite a few years. It’s the biggest old Spanish Land Grant in the western side of the San Francisco Bay Area. A few thousand horses, even more cattle, hay, and grain. A nice spread.“ He added in an undertone, “I never thought to see it again.”

Undoubtedly the gentlemen continued their fascinating conversations, and perhaps in time the two groups merged. But alas, I could not stay to observe, having been noticed in my quiet corner by the estimable Crosby and escorted, none too gently, to the door.


Welcome to New Belles:

Rue Allyn and Lizzi Tremayne

The Teatime Tattler is delighted to welcome Rue Allyn’s hero from The French Duchess, Richard Campion, and Lizzi Tremayne’s hero from her Long Trails series, Xavier Arguello. May we and our readers enjoy many happy hours watching them through these pages and the pages of the books they inhabit.

We invite you to take the time to learn more about Rue and her books, and Lizzi and hers, by clicking on the links in the previous paragraph.

Overheard at the Arguello-Lekarski Wedding, Rancho de las Pulgas

lizzi-a-movable-feast-indeed-decorSan Francisco Bay Area

April 1863

Señora Díaz looked down her nose at Aleksandra Arguello, nee Lekarski, holding hands with her new husband, Xavier beneath the lofty trees of the hacienda. She watched as the bridegroom picked a choice morsel of the carne asada from the long planks covered with the succulent roast meat and served it to her with glowing eyes. “Have you heard,” she said, “that these two have travelled all the way from Utah to here, without a duenna?” She wrinkled her nose.

“I heard they were married,” Señora Martínez said, reaching out for another hot, fresh tortilla, and ladling the spicy mole sauce over it, “or thought they were.”

“How could they possibly have thought they were?” She nearly dropped her plate in her excitement, then set it down on the table beside her. “Either one is or one is not!”

lizzie-dos-senoras“A Methodist pastor performed the ceremony in Virginia City, in the absence of a Catholic priest. It is acceptable to our church, but it turns out that is only the case when the bishop has given his approval.”

“And he hadn’t?” Señora Díaz’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and she turned to glare at the newlyweds.

Her friend’s pursed lips provided the answer.

“Well. Well…” Señora Díaz couldn’t seem to come up with a suitable reply.

“Weren’t you planning on Xavier for your daughter?” Señora Martínez  looked at her sideways, her voice hushed behind her fluttering fan.

She glanced at her overblown daughter and pursed her lips. “My husband and Xavier’s deceased stepfather had an agreement.”


“Well, it seems the lad ran away from home at fourteen, only to be seen again this year, with this…blonde…” She glanced at the bride, slim and glowing in her exquisite gown of bronze-gold silk taffeta and burgundy brocade, her mantilla floating down her back. She turned her gaze again to her properly dark-haired, Californio daughter, stuffing her face with another palillis, and liberally dusting her wine-colored gown with the fried pastry’s generous sprinkling of powdered sugar. She winced. “Nothing wrong with my daughter,” she whispered, if a bit sharply.

Señora Martínez  blinked and imperceptibly shook her head. “They came here from Sacramento during the flood last winter, and they saw the inauguration of Leland Stanford, our Governor. Did you know, he had to go to the Capitol building in a rowboat?”

“How do you know all this?”

“I met them at this rancho earlier in the year, and they told me the story.”

“Ah, so you’ve met them already.” Señora Díaz gulped, her eyes narrowed at her companion. “I had no idea.” She had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Yes, Xavier told me Aleksandra suggested to Mr. Stanford that they jack up the buildings of downtown Sacramento, like they did recently in Chicago.”

Señora Díaz’s brows shot up.

“He also told me,” Señora Martínez positively smirked, “that Aleksandra rode the Pony Express, as a boy!”

This was too much for Señora Díaz.

I’m afraid to report, she fainted dead away at the thought.

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lizzi-a-long-trailThis is an original piece and is incidental to A Sea of Green Unfolding.

The Long Trails Quadrilogy of Historical Romantic Suspense novels:

Book One: A Long Trail Rolling

Book Two: The Hills of Gold Unchanging, to be released 15 December, in time for Christmas! It will soon be available for pre-order for $2.99 at online retailers.

Book Three: A Sea of Green Unfolding, to be released soon thereafter

Book Four: A Bold Country Evolving, in research

A Long Trail Rolling

In 1860’s Old West, Aleksandra gets herself into a bit of strife…and the only way she can see out of it is to ride the famed Pony Express…as a boy. Not the best façade, when your boss is as gorgeous and appealing a man as Xavier…and together they somehow must evade the man who has already killed Aleksandra’s father…and has set his sights on her.

Buy Links for A Long Trail Rolling:

Amazon US

Other Buying Options

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Meet Lizzi Tremayne

lizzi-tremayneLizzi grew up riding wild in the Santa Cruz Mountain redwoods, became an equine veterinarian at UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, practiced in the California Pony Express and Gold Country before emigrating to New Zealand. When not writing, she’s swinging a rapier or shooting a bow in medieval garb, riding, driving a carriage or playing on her farm, singing, or working as an equine veterinarian or science teacher. She is multiply published and awarded in special interest magazines and veterinary periodicals.

You can learn more about Lizzi’s work on the following social media outlets:

Website & Books

Sign Me Up!

~    ~ Awards for A Long Trail Rolling   ~    ~

RWNZ Pacific Hearts for Best Unpublished Manuscript 2014: 1st Place

RWNZ Koru Awards for Excellence 2015:  Best First Book: 1st Place   &   Best Long Novel: 3rd Place

RWNZ Great Beginnings Contest 2013: Finalist

The Best Indie Book Awards 2015: Finalist

New Zealand Book Awards as a YA 15+: Longlisted

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Sguir! Aleksandra, stop!’ Aleksandra heard Scotty bark, and then continue in a low, steady voice. ‘Wouldn’t move, ‘f I was you, Xavier. Her da’s Cossack-trained and it ‘pears she is too.’ Scotty chuckled.

She felt Xavier ease his hold on her, but he didn’t let go, despite the blade at his neck.

‘Now a nighean,’ Scotty admonished her, ‘Xavier’s a charaid, a friend. He’s been watchin’ over ye for the best part of the afternoon.’

She relaxed the death-grip on her shashka, removing its tip from Xavier’s throat. Her gaze met his smooth cocoa eyes fringed by long, black lashes, crinkles of laughter showing at their corners. Aleksandra’s bronze-skinned benefactor had the look of a dark Spanish lord.

‘The vixen has teeth,’ Xavier said with a grin.
Aleksandra gave him the ghost of a smile, then frowned at his hands still upon her. White scars crisscrossed his right one, especially his knuckles. He let go of her and stepped back from her side.

‘Well Aleks, feelin’ better after yer little rest?’ Scotty approached cautiously, removing the sword from her shaky grip. ‘How ’bout a drink of water?’ He reached for the filled mug. ‘Ye ready to talk yet?’

She nodded slowly, eyes on Xavier.

‘Where’s yer da, Aleks?’ Scotty’s brow wrinkled, his voice tender

Aleksandra’s heart sank as she struggled to sit up. Reaching for the proffered cup, she drank slowly. The liquid’s coolness soothed her cracked lips and parched throat. Handing the vessel back, she wrapped her arms about herself tightly, chin to chest. When she swayed again, she dimly noticed Xavier moving closer, and was surprised to recognize that she didn’t mind his all-too-familiar closeness.

‘Papa is at rest,’ she said haltingly, so softly they had to move in close, ‘with Mama and my brothers.’

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