Thanks for stopping by my little corner on the Web. If you like powerful love stories about people who overcome great obstacles to be together, then you should enjoy my novels.
Feel free to look around my website. You’ll find information about me and my debut novel, Sanctuary for a Lady, as well as a preview of the first chapter and a behind-the-scenes look at the characters and setting.
by Naomi Rawlings
Coming April 2012
Running to freedom, she found love . . .
The injured young woman that Michel Belanger finds in the woods is certainly an aristocrat, and in the midst of France’s bloody revolution, sheltering nobility merits a trip to the guillotine. Yet despite the risk, Michel knows he must bring the wounded girl to his cottage to heal.
Attacked by soldiers and left for dead, Isabelle de La Rouchecauld has lost everything. A duke’s daughter cannot hope for mercy in France, so escaping to England is her best chance of survival. The only thing more dangerous than staying would be falling in love with this gruff yet tender man of the land. Even if she sees, for the first time, how truly noble a heart can be . . .
“Go to bed,” he growled.
Hurt flickered in her eyes and held. His throat closed. Didn’t she understand his dismissing her now would save her from more pain when she left? He swallowed pathetically and stepped so close she shifted her head backward so she didn’t bump his chest, so close he need only lift a hand to tangle it in her hair. “Isabelle—”
“You arrogant oaf! I’m trying to help.” She spoke sharply but moisture glistened in her eyes. She shoved her palm against his chest. “You spent all night traipsing around in the cold and rain. You refused rest, barely ate and now you disdain my politeness. Why! You deserve to catch pneumonia for a month.” She all but sobbed the last words.
Being this close to her was a mistake. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe. A longing spread through him until his arms ached to hold her and his chest craved the feel of her slender form pressed against him. He clasped her wrist instead. “You don’t mean any of that. You’re just tired.”
She blinked, banishing the unshed tears from her eyes. “Unhand me.”
He would, but she was too near. Her cheeks too flushed, her mouth too soft, her eyes too defenseless. She stopped tugging on her arm, and like a drowning sailor locking his gaze on shore, his eyes fixed on hers. Rain pounded the ground. Wind whipped through trees and tore at their cloaks. Coldness circled them. But neither moved.