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Monday, April 20, 2015

Wash Line Monday!

Our Monday meme shines a light on apparel. From Regency to Steampunk, and everything in between, we dress our characters to reflect the story we want to tell.

In comments, and in 300 words or less, give us a snippet from your novel that describes what your heroes, heroines, or bit players are wearing. Don't forget your buy link and website/blog link. Have fun!

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Come see my snippet on Exquisite Quills' Wash Line Monday!    


Anonymous said...

A Long Trail Rolling
Lizzi Tremayne

April 1860, Echo Canyon, Utah Territory, U.S.A.

She smelled blood. Its metallic tang assailed her senses, before it was overshadowed by the stench of death. Stepping back to scan the sheer wall of the bluff rising before her, her breath caught in her throat, and a sob escaped. Finally, she'd found him. A scuffed black boot and fur coat showed through the snow, his body wedged into the bottom of a crevice three feet above her head. She looked up to the top of the cliff, from which he must have fallen, but saw no one.
Finding handholds where there were none, Aleksandra Lekarski scrambled up the wall as her heart constricted in her chest. She tugged her father's cold, stiff body free and down onto level ground, giving thanks he'd been out of reach of the wolves, whose tracks abounded in the snow where she now stood. Her world blurred as she dropped to her knees and cradled his lifeless head in her lap, rocking him. Ceaseless tears flowed down her doeskin tunic.
With a numbing pain in her mind, she ran shaking hands over him, seeking answers. What could have made an experienced trapper like Krzysztof Lekarski fall off a bluff and succumb to a death more suited to a greenhorn?

Lizzi Tremayne
Buy link: All formats digital and softcover.

Nancy said...

Playing With Fire
Nan O'Berry
Contemporary romance

Payton whispered low. "She's kind of foxy, for an older woman."
Sully's eyebrow shot up his forehead. He glanced over at Mitzi climbing up the ladder to reach the top of the wall across from them. Foxy, hmm, yeah, that description fit. He liked the way she took things in stride and never got flustered.
"You like her, Sully?"
Payton's question took him by surprise. He glanced at the sophomore who stood studying his expression with great interest.
Pressing his lips together, Sully answered. "That is none of your business." He tapped the counter. "You remember what color your mom had for the laminate?"
"I want to say it was blue with a gold fleck. She never really liked it, but dad got a good price on it."
Nodding, Sully put down his description.
"Payton, you and Bryce haul these buckets out and pour them away from your mom's flowers. Don't want the acid to turn the blossoms another color," Eula commanded.
"Give me one more wet cloth," Mitzi said. "I see a spot we missed."
Payton reached in and twisted a cloth tossing it up to her. Mitzi turned, reached out to grasp it, and the ladder tilted back on two legs.
Sully heard her give a soft cry.
"Miss Stancil!" Payton floundered, rising to his feet.
In a flash, Sully crossed the distance and grasped her waist then hauled her against his body to keep her from falling. The metal clang of the ladder echoed as it righted itself with Payton's help.
Her arms found Sully's neck. Their glance connected. Her face grew flush as he slowly lowered her to the floor. All around them silence reined, except for the wild beating of his heart. "You all right?"
She nodded. "My goodness," Annette whispered.
"My goodness, indeed," Doris echoed.

Nan O'Berry

Rosemary Gemmell said...

From one of the short historical chapters in The Highland Lass by Rosemary Gemmell

Risking another glance, I see he has turned away to look at the preacher. His dark hair is smooth and curls in below his neck, and his profile is strong. He is smart in jacket and neckerchief and he has not the air of a farmer. Just as I remember I’m still staring, he looks up and our eyes meet again. This time I smile shyly and briefly before returning to my open Bible. He must not think I admire him too well. I’ll not become one of the silly lasses who
cast longing glances at him in the hope he will dally with them. I have too much pride for such behaviour. However, I cannot help one final glance as we stand to end the service. He smiles. And my heart tells me it is too late. But I still do not realise that this man, Robert Burns, will have anything to do with my destiny.

Amazon US:


Erin OQuinn said...

Here's a "kilty pleasure" description of the Scot Rory, from the eyes of his lover Alex:

A tall figure shrouded in some kind of long coat stood on the doorsill, apparently unaffected by the ice-cold rain. “Hello, lad. May I come in?”

“My God, Rory, get in here out of the storm. Dayyum, it’s good to see you.”

Rory stood in the middle of the room looking around almost hesitantly, his hair and mustache glistening with rain, a nascent beard glittering with tiny pearl drops. It stuck Alex just then—there was no place in this tiny room to hang the man’s very expensive wool coat. Hell, he’d really need to buy some kind of decent clothes closet, for his lover’s stuff and his own too.

He began to unbutton the unusual clothing, starting at Rory’s wet, bristling chin. “Let me do it.”

Rory bent his head an inch and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You can undress me anytime."

“Um, what do you call this?” Alex had stopped at the second button, lifting the cape-like part of the long wool coat.

“A greatcoat. ’Tis a venerable garment. No man from Nevada would be caught dead in one.”

Alex laughed and undid the next button. He began to realize why the tough-skinned Scot was wearing a coat, like a wuss. Usually a little rain would not daunt him at all. The more he unbuttoned, the more he revealed the formal tie, the rich wool fabric of the jacket, the shirt’s starched white linen; and finally the red, blue and green of the Clan Drummond knee-length tartan. His man was in full dress kilt, as though being here was some kind of special ceremony.

Here stood the Rory Drummond of his fitful dreams back in Nevada, after the man had turned and walked out the door. He’d never seen a man in a kilt back then … was it only a few months ago? But he thought the big Scot would fill a tartan the way he filled his craving ass, his famished heart.

This novel, THE KILT COMPLEX, is the sequel to Nevada Highlander. Both are here, on my Amazon page:

Veronica Scott said...

From WRECK OF THE NEBULA DREAM, scifi romance inspired by Titanic:
She was wearing a beaded, red, purple and orange striped skirt ending after about ten inches, with a thick layer of gold and red fringe extending a few more inches, provid¬ing a dubious nod to modesty. Randomly patterned red and orange tights covered her long legs, made even more shapely by the purple, four-inch stiletto heels she had on. This outfit was topped off with a big, plain white shirt, carelessly misbuttoned to reveal flashes of a skimpy red beaded halter. Her short black hair was slicked down and swept to the side. Her female compan¬ions were similarly garbed. The men wore tight, black, beaded pants and the big white shirts.

They’re as much in uniform as I am, only they undoubtedly wouldn’t see it.

Shaking his head, changing his mind as abruptly as he’d accepted Twilka’s unspoken invitation in the first place, Nick put his glass on a passing server’s tray and walked on, not caring if she noticed. It was quieter in the next quadrant of the casino, with individual games of chance. These were more passive, players pushing large, brightly colored buttons before holograms whirled. If five matching holograms ended the dance together, then chimes sounded and golden casino credits rained from thin air for the lucky gambler to catch.

Nick stopped his restless progress, having found the quarry he was unconsciously searching for. The businesswoman from the shuttle was playing one of the machines and appeared to be having quite a bit of luck, judging by the pile of golden credits in the tray. Nick walked over to the machine next to hers and began playing. $.99 Sale!

Anne Stenhouse said...

the extract below is from Mariah's Marriage by Anne Stenhouse - Mariah is deiscovering the power of a pretty dress:

“I’ve laid out your brown stripe because I didn’t think you’d want to inflame Mrs. Wilson further by going down in one of the new gowns.”
Mariah rolled onto her side and glared at her maid. “Then I do not agree with you for once,” she said. "I am the one who has been wronged here and my aunt will not intimidate me. I have suffered at the hands of a master manipulator. She holds no fear."
Tilly took a deep breath and folded the brown stripe over her arm. She pulled open the large oak cupboard and hung the dress away before lifting out a morning gown of palest cream silk. She pattered about the room finding clean linen and fresh stockings while Mariah splashed her face with warm water from her basin and tried to muster her thoughts.
Tilly dropped the dress over Mariah’s head and knotted its ties behind. “‘You can stand up now, miss. That dress is so beautiful with its piping around the sleeves an’ all. I think there’s a handkerchief of your mama’s in just that shade of peacock blue,” she said and rummaged in one of Mariah’s drawers. Triumphantly, she waved the square of cloth around. “Let me just pin this at your breast," she said and did so with a small brooch from the dresser.

Mariah's Marriage amazon UK amazon US
Anne blogs at Novels Now

Erin McRae said...

Midsummer (Love's Labours, Book 1)
By Racheline Maltese & Erin McRae
Coming May 20
Preorder from Dreamspinner Press:

Costume fittings and dress rehearsals means that John finally gets to see Michael costumed as Puck. The human characters are dressed contemporarily, in suits and cocktail dresses that become increasingly disheveled as the show goes on. The fairies, though, are dressed in greens and browns with crowns of strange wildness -- thistles, cornsilk, and Queen Ann’s lace. Michael as Puck looks deeply inhuman, covered in leaves as if dragged in from the wooded grounds. For their first dress rehearsal, it takes all of John’s considerable experience and willpower to actually focus on the play and not Michael. As taken as Oberon is meant to be with Puck, he should actually be able to remember and deliver his lines.

“Whose idea was this?” he asks Michael afterward, catching him before he can change. Michael blinks at him with eyes done up in silver and green. John wants to devour him.

“Do you like it?” Michael asks, more distant and coy than usual, sliding his hands up John’s chest which, like his own, is bare.

All John can do is groan when Michael looks up at him from under his lashes. He stands on his tiptoes to kiss John briefly, and then vanishes. When he reappears he’s Michael again, in t-shirt and shorts, but John can’t forget the image of him transformed.

Midsummer (Love's Labours, Book 1)
By Racheline Maltese & Erin McRae
Coming May 20
Preorder from Dreamspinner Press:

Mona Karel said...

May 2012 Black Opal Books

This scene is from the gallery showing of Jonathan's photographs. Bethany has been missing for a few weeks. When she shows up she has taken risk of dressing to reveal, not hide, her beauty

His grip became steadying, both hands holding her arms as his gaze disapproved of the insubstantial shoes. Painted toenails peeked at him from between dainty straps holding an impossibly high heel in place. He turned his attention to the full silk skirt, a fragile shade of ivory, then stopped looking when he got to the emerald blouse.
“Damn you, did you have to wear that blouse?”He hadn’t meant to say it. He’d meant to be calm and cool, to congratulate her on her new look. He was an adult, he could tolerate occasional rejection. Then he looked up to her face and saw her eyes, made brilliant by unshed tears, the only color in a face drained of life.
When she would have wrenched away, he cursed at her, at himself, at life. His hold tightened, pulling her away from the engrossed gallery crowd and into a small, plush office lit by one lamp. Here he released her, letting her hide herself in a darker corner.

Gilli Allan said...

Here's a description from my WIP - currently called Human Archaeology.
Emma’s makeup is always flawless - almost too flawless, in Jane’s view - giving her face an antique, china doll quality. Never has she seen her without her false eyelashes or her glossy auburn hair rigidly coiffed. But it is a brittle ceramic head atop a soft, rag-stuffed body. It’s not that Emma dresses badly, quite the reverse, her clothes are always good quality and she has a predilection for silk chiffon scarves and cashmere shawls, but her shape lends an untidy sprawl to the rest of her that no amount of perfection in face, hair and quality fabrics can distract from. Emma, bless her heart, always looks, kind of messy.
Out - fingers crossed - next year.

Susan Macatee said...

From Civil War time travel romance, Erin's Rebel.

She turned her head and squinted into the yellow-white glow of a lantern. She wasn’t in her car but lying flat on her back.

Someone moved beside her. A man with a heavy drawl spoke. "Are you all right, ma'am? Can you speak?"

She stared at him. Was she in a hospital? No. The gangly, sandy-haired man with the handlebar mustache wasn’t wearing scrubs. He appeared to be in his early thirties and was dressed in an oversized, striped blue and white shirt draped over tan wool pants with a set of suspenders dangling to his knees. This sure wasn’t an emergency room.

"Where am I?" she croaked. "What happened?" Blinding pain shot through her skull, again.

"You were thrown from a horse. Do you remember?"

"Horse?" She shook her head, then the sharp pain stopped her. "Ow, everything hurts."

The man pried the damp cloth from her hand and pressed it against the back of her head. "I don't feel any broken bones, but you’ve got a nice sized lump right here. I reckon you have a nasty headache. Just what where you doing on that mare this hour of night?"

"I wasn't on a horse," she said. "I've never been on a horse in my life. It was a car crash. I hit a tree when that truck slid in front of me."

"A bad fall like that could have affected your mind, Mrs. O'Connell." The man eyed her. "You're not making a lick of sense."

"O'Connell? No. I think you've made a mistake, Doctor." She scrutinized him. "You are a doctor, aren't you?"

Andrea Parnell said...

WHISPERS AT MIDNIGHT Gothic Historical Romance

Concerned that she was keeping her callers waiting, Amanda hurriedly dressed in a chintz gown and an embroidered linen waistcoat that accented her slim waist.

She took a moment more to make her bed.There was so much about living at Wicklow she hadn't anticipated. She particularly hadn't expected the feeling of unrest that kept growing within her. She might blame Ryne Sullivan for that. Nor had she expected the dim shadow of fear that sometimes swept over her. She realized as she gave the bedcovers a last smoothing stroke that she was counting heavily on having the two women stay.

The bed finished, Amanda dashed out into the hall and hurried toward the stairs. She had gone only a few paces when she was aware of someone walking behind her and spun around to find Ryne catching up to her.

Unconsciously she furrowed her brow at the sight of him, but mostly because he brought a secret stirring deep inside her. He was again clad entirely in black, and she wondered briefly if he ever dressed otherwise. Certainly the choice was a wise one for attractiveness. The color became him and made his blue eyes shine like sapphires in contrast. At least for once his shirt was fastened and tucked into his breeches.

As if he had made one more concession to conventionality, he also wore a black leather stock at his collar and silver cufflinks in his sleeves. To see him with the warm smile and outward look of pleasure on his face, Amanda had no wonder that women were drawn to him.

"Amanda"—his eyes regarded her with good-natured amusement—"you slept well, did you not? And long?"

For some reason she couldn't pinpoint, his cheerfulness annoyed her.


James D said...

From the next book in the Dream Series (out May 22nd):

She swings her legs off the bed, slowly gets to her feet, looks at herself in the big floorstanding mirror.

Sara does not see herself. There is someone else looking back at her.
“I’ve been waiting here for hours,” Lydia Saunders says from the other side of the glass. She’s exactly as Sara remembers her – brown hair, scarlet dress cut much too short, red heels that elevate her two or three inches above Sara.

“What are you doing here?” Sara knows that it’s impossible for Lydia to be here – or anywhere at all, for that matter. “I – I killed you.”

“You ought to be asking yourself that question. You’re the one who brought me here. This is your dream, or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”

pre-order at Amazon: