Curl up by the fire and discover excerpts, teasers, and secret glimpses into my stories — including A Vow for the Viscount and A Redemption for the Baron.
Some are soft and wistful. Others… far less proper.

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At Lady Jane’s, I had the joy of reading from A Redemption for the Baron, which is available on the Book Page or at Books2Read) Here is the very same scene, shared now with you inside the Salon.

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This is a scene from my book A Redemption for the Baron. I’ve lightly adapted the excerpt for the reading today, but the heart (and the heat) are all still there.

This scene takes place in 1821, on a storm-swept English road. Captain Thomas Grenville, a recently retired soldier, now a reluctant baron, is on his way to a country house party. The rain is relentless, and he’s almost there… when he spots a stranded carriage, a determined redhead, and a battle that has nothing to do with war, and everything to do with pride.

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“Come on, boy,” Thomas murmured to Valor, his voice low, steady, the only calm thing in a storm gone mad. “Let’s get home before the rain swallows us whole.”

The woods spat him out onto a flooded stretch of road just as a flash of lightning cracked the sky wide open.

His horse stiffened. Ears pricked. Muscles bunched.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Steady,” he whispered. There, up ahead. A carriage tilted hard to one side, one wheel sunk deep in the sucking mud.

A woman, unmistakably feminine despite the soaked cloak plastered to her body, struggled beside an older coachman, both fighting against the storm like it had personally insulted them.

Thomas guided Valor closer, then dismounted with a practiced swing, his boots sinking deep into the mire.

He called out, “Nasty weather, but I’m happy to help you out of this mess.”

The woman turned, rain sliding off the brim of her hat. Her voice was sharp enough to slice through the thunder. “That won’t be necessary.”

He didn’t budge.

She turned again, this time with narrowed eyes. “We can manage just fine.”

He gave a small laugh. “Ah, but if I left you to it, I’d be haunted by my conscience, and soaked boots.” He offered a mock bow, water sluicing off his hat in theatrical protest, as if the storm itself disapproved of his wit.

Thunder cracked again. The coach horses skittered, reins slipping in the coachman’s hands.

Thomas moved without waiting for permission. His hands found the lead horse’s bridle, voice low and easy. “Whoa there, lad… nothing to fear but the weather and a Scotswoman’s wrath.”

The horses calmed. Slightly.

The coachman gave a grateful nod, but it was the woman who caught Thomas’s attention, her spine stiff as a bayonet, her chin high.

“Captain, is it?” she asked, tone clipped. “You sit your horse like a soldier.”

His brow lifted. “You see rank in posture?”

“I see experience in tension. Yours reads like a battlefield.”

Well. She was perceptive. And bold.

“And you,” he countered, “strike me as someone who doesn’t like help.”

“I don’t like interference.”

He smiled slowly. “Fair enough. But even the fiercest warriors know when to accept an ally.”

A flicker. Just there, in the tight set of her jaw. She didn’t want to agree. But the storm had other ideas.

“Very well,” she said.

They moved as a team, clumsy at first, then smoother. She had strong hands, steady even when caked with mud. She worked without complaint, with sharp focus and quicker instincts than many men he’d commanded. That was an intriguing thought. If he were to choose allies in a fight, he would want her on his side.

She bent to brace the wheels with stones. Her boot lost grip in the mud, her body pitching forward with a gasp he felt straight in his chest.

He caught her.

His hands went to her waist. Her breath caught. So did his.

For one long,(pause)  suspended second, (pause) the world forgot to move.

Then, like a snapped thread, she jerked away. No sound. No protest. Just space, sudden and cold between them.

She didn’t meet his eyes again.

He didn’t press. But something in her quiet unsettled him more than her earlier defiance.

They returned to the task. Stones in place. Branch for leverage. He handed it to her, and she took it without hesitation.

“You’re stronger than I am,” she said, without ego. “I’ll brace.”

Together they lifted, pushed, grunted. The wheels broke free of the rut and rolled onto firmer ground.

She straightened, skirts sodden, hair stuck to her cheek, but her spine never bent.

He offered a corner of his handkerchief, the least muddy one, to clean off her face and hands.

She hesitated. Then took it.

“I’ll see it returned.”

He nodded. “At your leisure.”

“We Scots,” she said, voice lighter as she rubbed stubborn mud from her fingers, “know a thing or two about storms.”

“As do soldiers.”

“Aye,” she murmured as she glanced up at him, “and not all of them come with thunder.”

His gaze sharpened. He could have said something then. Could have asked. But he didn’t.

He offered instead: “I could ride alongside your coach, make sure you arrive safely.”

She flicked her wrist in a dismissal. “That won’t be necessary.”

He grinned. “You don’t want anyone to know you needed help.”

“You seem awfully sure I did.”

He shrugged. “The carriage moved, didn’t it?”

As she turned to leave, her boot knocked something near his foot, a gold token, half-buried in the muck. She bent, retrieved it, and turned it in her fingers.

“BB?” she asked, voice edged with amusement. “Baron of Bother?”

Their fingers brushed, warm, unexpected, like the strike of flint catching on dry kindling.

“You might want to guard your treasures more closely,” she said.

“You’re assuming I didn’t leave it on purpose.”

She arched a brow. “To impress a stranger in the rain?”

“Stranger?” he repeated, sliding the coin into his pocket. “You wound me. I thought we were allies now, my Bonnie Battler.”

She paused. Then, with a reluctant smile: “Bonnie Battler?”

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got the fight in you, that’s for sure. And ‘Bonnie’ fits you well, very well.” He bowed to her as if she were a princess.

She laughed, soft, real. Then caught herself. “If that’s meant to flatter me, Captain, you’ll have to do better.”

“You earned it.”

She said nothing for several heartbeats.

“I suppose I owe you thanks,” she said at last.

He tipped his hat. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.” She gave him a gracious nod, one warrior to another.

The carriage rolled on.

He didn’t know her name. But he wanted to.

***

(Take a breath and drink of water… slow down)

So… things happen.. blah, blah, blah. If is were reading from the book, I’d be turning pages. Ready?

And because fate is a cheeky matchmaker… they meet again. This time, dry. Indoors. And neither one prepared for it.

****

Bridget added the last of the hydrangeas and lavender to the arrangements. Lost in thought, she didn’t hear footsteps approaching. As she stepped back to admire her work, she collided with a solid figure.

“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, regaining her balance.

“No, the fault is mine entirely,” came a familiar voice.

Bridget looked up, her gaze locking onto a pair of striking blue eyes, ones she had tried and failed to forget.

“You?” they blurted out together.

Bridget’s fingers curled into her skirts. A scowl formed, not from irritation alone, though that was part of it. Recognition struck, clean and immediate. The man from the road. The Baron of Bother, in the very flesh.

She drew a slow breath and smothered the impulse to step back. No, she told herself. Not again.

“What unfortunate twist of fate brought you here?” she asked, her tone edged with irritation.

Grenville arched a brow and smiled… maddeningly slow, as if he savored her displeasure. “Perhaps fate determined you required further instruction in gracious acceptance.”

Bridget huffed, crossing her arms. “And you imagine yourself qualified for the task.”

His smirk deepened. He dipped his head in a manner just polite enough to vex her. “It appears our paths cross once more, Miss…”

“McConnell,” she said, her pulse still catching on recognition. She broadened her smile. “Lady McConnell.”

“Captain Thomas Grenville, Baron of Bother, at your service,” he said with an amused bow.

His playfulness broke through her reserve. Baron of Bother. She gently shook her head. “So, you’re the elusive Captain Grenville everyone’s been anticipating.” She arched an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t aware I was the subject of such discussion.” A mischievous, playful smile tugged at his lips, one he failed to suppress.

“Oh, modesty doesn’t suit you.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “But it does make for entertaining company.”

****

That’s the beginning of their storm, not the weather, but the pull. And neither of them is ready for what’s coming next.

A Redemption for the Baron is available now, but fair warning: Grenville doesn’t get any less infuriating. Only more irresistible.

The Writing Desk is where I share reflections on my journey as an author — the whispers, the memories, and the truths that shape every story.

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Every story begins as a whisper. Sometimes it’s a line of dialogue I overhear in the quiet of my mind. Sometimes it’s a memory: my father’s letters, my mother’s wedding gown, a family story tucked away like an heirloom. And sometimes, it’s simply the question: “What if…?”

Writing isn’t about chasing perfection; it’s about chasing truth. The truth of a character’s longing, the truth of a lover’s hesitation, the truth of a promise made or broken. That’s why I write historical romance. Not only to bring the past alive, but to remind us that love, in all its tender and tumultuous forms, is timeless.

So settle in at the desk with me. Here, I’ll share the stories behind the stories — the sparks that lit them, and the secrets that keep them burning.

 

Rafe’s Corner is where I steal the quill and speak directly to you. I’m Ruth’s muse — teasing, cajoling, and occasionally scolding — and I promise to share secrets she would never tell on her own.

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Ah, so you’ve stumbled into my corner. Allow me to introduce myself properly:
I am Rafe, Ruth’s muse, confidant, and occasional taskmaster. I tease her when she procrastinates, cajole her when she doubts, and yes, reprimand her when she pretends a chapter is finished when we both know she can dig deeper.

Her stories aren’t just ink on paper. They’re stitched with family, memory, and legacy. Every vow, every secret, every kiss you read carries a shadow of something she has lived or dreamed. That is why her worlds feel so real — because they are threaded with her heart.

So linger with me. The Salon holds games and puzzles to entertain you, excerpts to tempt you, and secrets to keep you coming back.
But let me leave you with one question: what would you risk for a kiss?

Follow the candlelight into Whispers & Secrets, and you may just hear Gabriel’s answer.

Ever your shadow in the candlelight,

~ Rafe

 

Not every mystery demands solving — but a few might reward the curious.
Try your hand at a jigsaw, test your wit, or uncover a secret message hidden between the words.

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Unwind and piece together the beautiful covers of my books, one puzzle at a
time.

Love my book covers? Try your hand at piecing them together! Each puzzle is designed to challenge and delight, giving you an up-close appreciation for the artwork that brings my stories to life. Click on the picture and it will take you to the puzzle page. Let me know how long it takes you to complete them.

 

Some voices linger in the dark long after the page ends.
Here you’ll find letters, confessions, and secrets shared by the heroes who have already stolen your heart — beginning with Gabriel from A Masquerade for the Baron.

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Come closer… Gabriel has written a confession meant only for your eyes.

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Whispers travel further than ink. If you listen closely, this is what Gabriel said:

“Every risk is worth it if it leads to her lips.”

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Gabriel’s Confession (Part Two)

My dearest—

Now you haunt me. In every crowded room, I feel you before I see you. In every silence, I hear your voice. And when I dream—ah, it is the masquerade again. You are masked, and still I know you.

I should be stronger. I should turn away. But if you are reading this, then you know the truth: I do not wish to be free of you.

(The remainder of Gabriel’s words await you in A Vow for the Viscount… if you dare to read them.)

From A Vow for the Viscount now on Preorder on the Book Page or from Books2Read Release October 18

Want a closer look? Try piecing together the cover in this special Salon puzzle — click here to begin your challenge.