Rescued by the Rakish Lord by Sarah Mallory

Rescued by the Rakish Lord by Sarah Mallory

Publication Date: April 23rd, 2026

Publisher: Harlequin Mills & Boon

Pages: 276

Genre: Historical Romance

A man of such dubious reputation…

that he was called Devil Blackbourne!

When Lord Deveril Blackbourne meets Selina Wynter, he is intrigued. For she has all the accomplishments of a lady, but the fiery temper and spirit of a tavern maid! Then she is abducted by a dastardly suitor, and Deveril—for all his roguish reputation— can’t stand idly by… 

Lord Deveril is Selina’s least likely rescuer, but when they’re stranded together in a snowstorm and her reputation is at risk, he surprises her with a gallant proposal! Deveril’s no honourable suitor, yet his actions say otherwise…

Just who is the real Devil Blackbourne? Selina’s determined to find out!

Excerpt

Deveril and Selina meet while out riding

Selina first encountered Lord Deveril when she was masquerading as a maid at a posting inn. Intrigued, he has returned to Torrisford and come in search of her…

‘Miss Wynter, we meet again!’ His dark eyes were full of laughter. ‘You are a deuced elusive lady. I have been riding around here for days, hoping to see you.’

‘Do I know you, sir?’ She treated him to a haughty stare. There was still a possibility he might not recognise her.

He grinned. ‘We have not been formally introduced, but I wanted to find you, to thank you for that tankard of ale.’

Only for a moment did Selina consider disclaiming any knowledge. It would be futile, so instead she gave him a look intended to depress pretension.

‘Well now you have thanked me, so you may go on your way. Or rather, you should return the way you came. Perhaps you are unaware that you are trespassing.’

‘No, am I? This way leads to Reigney Abbey, does it not?’

She turned Orion, saying pointedly, ‘Goodbye, Lord Deveril.’

‘If you are going back to the Abbey then pray allow me to accompany you.’

He rode up alongside her, so close she could reach out and touch the buckskins covering his muscled thigh, if she so wished. Even more alarming, he could reach her.

‘I do not wish you to accompany me.’ She edged Orion away, widening the distance between them.

‘Then I shall follow you. To call upon Mr Wynter, you understand. I should like to make his acquaintance.’

Deciding that any further remonstrance would be childish, Selina pressed her lips together and set off at a canter. She was not surprised to find Lord Deveril kept pace, but when the grey began to edge in front, she could not resist the challenge.

She gave Orion his head and the black surged forward. Immediately Lord Deveril responded and soon both horses were galloping neck and neck across the hill. The wind tugged at Selina’s hat, pulling curls free from their pins, and a laugh of pure joy bubbled up. She must look like a hoyden, but for the moment she did not care.

They were approaching the lower slopes of the hill where the track descended more steeply. They both slackened their pace but the grey stumbled, pitching the rider over the horse’s head. Selina hauled on the reins and Orion came to a plunging halt.

‘Deveril!’

She slipped to the ground and ran across to where he was lying, motionless. He was on his back, eyes closed, and she dropped to her knees beside him. Gently she smoothed the black hair away from his brow, anxiously scanning his body for signs of injury.

‘My lord, are you hurt?’

‘Forgive me while I catch my breath,’ muttered Deveril, keeping his eyes shut while he assessed the situation. ‘I do not think I have broken anything.’

‘Thank heaven for that. Can you get up?’

He opened his eyes to find Selina gazing down anxiously into his face.

‘Now why should I want to move, when you are looking at me like that?’

The ready laughter sprang to her eyes and she sat back, shaking her head. ‘You are irrepressible, my lord! Tell me, truthfully, how do you feel?’

‘I feel I want to kiss you.’

‘Well, you cannot!’ she said, blushing and laughing at the same time.

He grinned. ‘Can I not?’

‘No! We must ascertain that you have taken no injury.’

He sat up slowly. ‘I shall have a few bruises, I think, but nothing more serious.’

‘I am very glad about that.’ She jumped up and held her hand out to him. ‘Let us see if you can stand.

‘Well?’ she asked, when she had helped him to his feet. ‘Is there any damage?’

‘Only to my pride.’

‘That will soon be mended!’

She was standing before him, her face alive with merriment, and Deveril’s breath hitched. The fall had winded him, but not like this! It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull her into his arms and, when she did not resist, he lowered his head and kissed her.

She leaned against him, her palms resting on his chest, her mouth soft and sweet against his. He deepened the kiss and she responded, her tongue flickering tentatively for a moment and then she was pushing him away.

Immediately he released her and she stepped back, her cheeks flushed. Without a word, she began to shake out the voluminous skirts of her riding habit. Deveril watched her for a moment, then he scooped up his hat.

‘Should I apologise?’ he asked her.

Selina kept her eyes lowered, giving the skirts a more vigorous shake while she tried to make sense of her feelings. He had kissed her! She should be furious with him, but how could she let him take all the blame, when she had kissed him back so outrageously?

She could not recall the last time she had felt so…so alive. The gallop, Deveril’s sudden fall and the knowledge that he was unhurt had left her buzzing with nervous energy. And then that kiss! It had set her body tingling from her head to her toes. Even now she could feel the blood pumping through her veins. She knew she could have stopped him from kissing her, if she had tried. If she had wanted to do so. It would be wrong, churlish, to dissemble.

‘It was not entirely your fault, my lord.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘No. I was curious.’

‘I see.’ He did not appear to be shocked by her admission. ‘Did I live up to your expectations?’

She looked up. He was smiling, his eyes full of mischief, and Selina was obliged to smother the laugh bubbling up inside. This was dangerous ground and she knew very well that Lord Deveril was experienced at flirtation. Yet for the life of her she could not bring herself to snub him.

She looked around ‘At least we did not frighten the horses.’

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Sarah Mallory

Sarah Mallory is an award-winning author who has published more than 40 historical romances with Harlequin Mills & Boon. She loves history, especially the Georgian and Regency.

She won the prestigious RoNA Rose Award from the Romantic Novelists Association in 2012 and 2013 and nominated in 2022. She also won the RNA’s Romantic Historical Novel Award in 2024 for The Night She Met the Duke. Sarah also writes romantic historical adventures as Melinda Hammond.

Sarah was born in the West Country but lived for many years on the Yorkshire Pennines, taking inspiration from the wild and rugged moors. Then in 2018 she fell in love with Scotland and ran away to live on the rugged North West Coast, which is proving even more inspiring!

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Margery & Me by Maryka Biaggio

Margery & Me

By Maryka Biaggio

Publication Date: April 21st, 2026

Publisher: Regal House Publishing

Pages: 292

Genre: Historical Fiction

In the 1920s, Margery Crandon captivated both Boston society and psychic researchers with her astonishing seances. At her gatherings, her deceased brother Walter regularly appeared, entertaining the circle with his witty and cheeky remarks.

Margery's abilities earned her the admiration of luminaries, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and William Butler Yeats. But one man stood in opposition: Harry Houdini, the legendary magician, who was determined to expose her as a fraud.

Margery and Me tells the true story of the medium who mystified scientists, challenged skeptics, and sparked a sensation across America and Europe. As Houdini and Margery clashed in a battle of wits and wills, the question remained:

Could the master illusionist unmask her, or would her extraordinary powers be enough to convert even the most resolute of doubters?

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Maryka Biaggio

Maryka Biaggio is a psychology professor-turned-novelist who brings forgotten lives back into the light. Specializing in historical fiction inspired by real people, she crafts emotionally resonant narratives anchored in careful research.

Her debut novel, Parlor Games (Doubleday, 2013), launched a distinguished career that includes Gun Girl and the Tall Guy and Margery and Me. Her work has earned numerous accolades, including the Willamette Writers Award, Oregon Writers Colony Award, Historical Novel Society Review Editors' Choice, La Belle Lettre Award, and a Publishers Weekly pick.

Biaggio is celebrated for illuminating overlooked historical figures with psychological depth and narrative grace.

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Infidel: The Daughters of Aragon (Six Tudor Queens) by Nicola Harris

 

Infidel: The Daughters of Aragon 

(Six Tudor Queens)

By Nicola Harris

Publication Date: 5th March 2026

Publisher: ‎Independently Published

Print Length: 268 Pages

Genre: Biographical Historical Fiction | Tudor Fiction | Historical Fiction

Born in the glittering courts of Castile and Aragon and forged in the shadow of war, Catalina de Aragón grows up surrounded by queens, rebels, and explorers. She is her mother’s last daughter, the final jewel of a dynasty built on conquest and faith, and the one child Isabella of Castile cannot bear to lose.

But destiny has already claimed Catalina.

Promised to Prince Arthur of England since childhood, she is raised to bind kingdoms, soothe old wounds, and carry the hopes of an empire across the sea. Yet, Spain fractures under rebellion, grief, and the ruthless zeal of its own rulers.

From the burning streets of Granada to the storm lashed Bay of Biscay, Catalina and her sisters must navigate a treacherous path shaped by ambition, betrayal, and the dangerous love of men who fear the power of queens. She learns to read cyphers, to read hearts, and to stand unbroken even as her childhood is stripped from her piece by piece.

And when she finally sails for England armed with her mother’s lessons, her father’s steel, and the ghosts of the Alhambra at her back, Catalina steps into her fate not as a girl, but as a force.

A princess.

A survivor.

A daughter of Aragon.

Infidel is the story of a young woman raised for greatness and destined to reshape the fate of nations. This is Catalina, as she has never been seen before. She is fierce, vulnerable, and unforgettable.

A sweeping, intimate portrait of sisterhood, survival, and the making of a dynasty, Infidel reveals the hidden lives of a woman whose courage shaped the Tudor world.

Excerpt

Juana: 

Catalina had been waiting for weeks for Isabel’s return. She was certain that the moment our widowed sister stepped through the gates, our sister would be happy again. Over and over, she told me how Isabel would open her arms wide, how she would run into them and sit on her lap as she always had. Catalina spoke of nothing but Isabel’s laughter, her stories, her dancing, her love of sweetmeats and flowers, and how much she had missed her.

When Isabel finally arrived, she came riding side saddle on a humble donkey that clacked its hooves across the courtyard stones. The animal halted, but Isabel did not dismount at once. When she did, the breath caught in my throat.

She was veiled, her body swathed in black, moving slowly as though the very air weighed her down. Her hair was hidden. Her face was hidden. The joy was gone from her step.

The servants guided Isabel forward, their arms firm around her as if she might collapse. She did not look up. She did not greet us. She seemed smaller, thinner, her steps dragging. In her hands, she clutched a crucifix so tightly that Our Lord’s face must have imprinted itself into her skin.

Catalina cried out and tried to run to her, but I held her back. The picture she had carried in her head of Isabel laughing and of Isabel radiant, shattered in an instant. Isabel did not see us. She did not speak. She showed no joy at being home.

She passed beneath the archway, the veil trembling with her breath, and I saw only the shadow of my sister, hollowed by grief.

She wore the habit of a Poor Clare nun. And as I watched her move through the courtyard like a ghost, I thought, this is how sorrow must be lived.

oOo

Catalina:

We were herded into our parents’ bedchamber to greet Isabel. I clutched Juana’s hand, still half believing the picture in my mind of the Isabel I had always known, sensible and smiling and glad to be home.

But the figure before us was draped in black. Cloth hung from her shoulders, her veil heavy, she was dressed like a nun.

Isabel did not look at us. As she lay on our parents’ bed, her face turned to the wall, I saw that her lovely hair was gone. Her cheeks were hollow, and her bones were sharp beneath her skin.

I edged closer, desperate to speak. ‘Isabel,’ I whispered, my voice small.

She stirred only slightly, a hand twitching against the sheet. No words came.

The candle beside her flickered, throwing long shadows across her wasted body. 

I stayed where I was, bewildered by all the tears for a prince none of us had ever met. The sister I remembered, the golden sister laughing and alive, was gone. In her place lay a new Isabel, silent, veiled, her sorrow filling the room as surely as smoke had filled our tent at Santa Fe.

I held out a single flower from the courtyard. It was bright, alive and fragile in my hand. Surely it would cheer her. She had always loved the smell of gardens, the soft brush of petals against her cheek.

I lifted the flower toward her. ‘Here,’ I whispered. ‘It is pretty. It will make you happy.’

She did not move. She turned her head further toward the wall, deeper into the dark.

The flower trembled in my hand. I thought of my grandmother, who everyone called mad, sitting alone in her shuttered chamber, refusing the sunlight. Isabel was the same now. She, too, was choosing darkness, choosing candlelight and choosing sorrow.

I placed the flower on the coverlet, close to her hand. ‘It is yours,’ I said, my voice breaking.

Isabel’s fingers did not even twitch. It was as if she, too, had died.

I stayed there, staring at the flower lying useless on the bed, knowing she would never reach out for me, never reach for happiness, and want only the dark.

I stood straighter, my fists tight at my sides. 

I thought of my grandmother, choosing the dark. Isabel had chosen it too.

But I would not.

I would keep the colour, keep the sweetness of my life, even if no one else wanted it and even if no one wanted my love.

oOo

Juana:

I sat at the foot of the bed, our mother’s letter open in my hands. Isabel lay pale against the pillows, her eyes fixed on nothing. The book of Job rested beside her on Mother’s finest coverlet, open but unread. She had no strength for anything but weeping and lamenting her miserable fate.

‘Mother is returning from Santa Fe to comfort you,’ I whispered.

Isabel’s response was razor sharp. ‘Only because she wants me to marry again. She will be furious that the Portuguese alliance has failed. She will send me elsewhere the moment she can find a treaty that suits her.’

‘She loves you and wants the best for you, Isabel,’ Catalina said, and there was an edge in her voice that startled me.

‘What would you know, Catalina? You are but a child.’

‘At least I am not unkind like you are,’ Catalina shot back.

Silence fell, heavy and brittle. Then Isabel whispered, ‘What would you know about love? I will not marry again. No one can make me. I will enter a convent.’

Catalina perched on her stool, her feet swinging, restless. ‘Read it to me,’ she demanded, chin lifted. ‘I am the Princess of Wales. I must know what happens in England.’

I smoothed the parchment, lowering my voice so as not to disturb Isabel. ‘Mother writes of a youth in Ireland. Do you know where that is?’

Catalina nodded solemnly, so I continued. ‘He is calling himself Richard, Duke of York. They say he looks like King Edward, and Margaret of Burgundy has taken him in, claiming she recognises him. His name is Perkin Warbeck.’

Catalina’s eyes widened. ‘So, there is another person claiming to be one of the boys who died in the Bloody Tower and a new claimant to the Tudor throne?’ she whispered, hungry for intrigue and quick for her age.

I folded the letter carefully, my movements slow, as if gentleness might shield Isabel from the weight of her pain. ‘Yes. And that is why he is dangerous. Every enemy of England will swear he has a genuine claim.’

‘Does he?’

‘I think the Queen of England would know her own brother as easily as we would recognise Juan.’

‘Has she seen him?’

‘No. But if she did, she would know.’

Catalina nodded with all the gravity of a lady of our mother’s age, though her feet still swung absently above the floor.

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Nicola Harris

I’ve always been a writer, but it was only when illness forced me to stop everything that I finally had the time to write a novel. After decades of misdiagnosis, I learned I was born with a serious genetic condition, not rare, but profoundly misunderstood. The clues were there from birth, and suddenly, a lifetime of struggle made sense.

Writing became my lifeline: a way to step beyond my pain, to shape my experience into a story, and to find meaning where there had once been only endurance.

I have a lifelong love of children, Counselling, and Psychotherapy Theory and history.

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Bride of the Devil: Agnes, Wife of Robert de Belleme (Medieval Babes) by J.P. Reedman

Bride of the Devil:

Agnes, Wife of Robert de Belleme

Medieval Babes

By J.P. Reedman

Publication Date: August 4th, 2025

Publisher: independently published

Pages: 248

Genre: Historical Biographical Fiction / Medieval Fiction

She is a great heiress; he is the wickedest man in Normandy.

Known to men far and wide as 'The Devil,' Robert de Belleme terrorises France alongside his equally fearsome mother, Mabel the Poisoner. But even a Devil needs an heir, and Mabel chooses the wealthy heiress Agnes of Ponthieu to be her son's bride. The marriage is unhappy, though the longed-for son and heir is eventually born...but when Robert is away on one of his military campaigns, Agnes flees back to her father's castle.

She is not safe; her young son William is not safe.

The Devil will seek to claim his own.

BOOK 13 IN THE MEDIEVAL BABES SERIES.

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J.P. Reedman

J.P. Reedman was born in Canada but has lived in the U.K. for over 30 years. Interests include folklore and anthropology, prehistoric archaeology (neolithic/bronze age Europe; ritual,burial & material culture), as well as The Wars of the Roses and the rest of the medieval era. Novels include the popular  I, Richard Plantagenet series about Richard III, The Falcon and the Sun (featuring other members of the House of York), and Medieval Babes, an ongoing series about lesser-known medieval queens and noblewomen.

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Excerpt: Another Soul Saved by John Anthony Miller

 

Another Soul Saved 
By John Anthony Miller

Publication Date: April 1, 2026

Publisher: Independent

Pages: 415

Genre: Historical Fiction

Vienna, 1941

Monika Graf, the wife of a wealthy Austrian military commander, steals two Jewish girls from the Nazis—a crime often punishable by death. With soldiers in rapid pursuit, a homeless Jew named Janik, a mysterious man who lurks in the shadows, helps her escape.

Unable to have children of her own, she finds a new purpose in life—rescuing Jewish children from the horrendous Nazi regime. She asks the Swiss for help, trading military secrets she gleans from her husband for the lives of Jewish children. With Janik’s continued support, she also enlists Father Christoff, a priest at St. Stephen's Cathedral coping with unexpected emotions and doubting his commitment to God. Monika quickly forms bonds that can’t be broken, feelings exposed she never knew existed. 

Relentlessly pursued by Gestapo Captain Gustav Kramer, Monika combats continuing risk to her clandestine operation. When her husband, a rabid Nazi, returns from the battlefield severely wounded, she gets caught in a cage that she can’t crawl out of.

Wrought with danger, riddled with romance, Another Soul Saved shows humanity at both its best and worst in a classic struggle of good versus evil.

Monika eyed the man in the doorway, mid-thirties with dark hair and eyes. He must be a Jew. He would be in the military if he weren’t. 

“Hurry,” he urged. “Before they see you.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Inside, girls.” 

“This way,” the man said as he closed the door. 

Monika was wary. No one could be trusted—not in Vienna. But she had little choice. “Thank you,” she said, wondering how he knew they were running from the soldiers.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.  

He seemed like a good man, and her instincts rarely failed her. “Why did you help us?” 

“We must help each other,” he said. “Or we’ll never survive.”

Broad stairs sprawled across most of the vestibule, leading to a second-floor apartment. He brought them through a skinny passage along the wall that led to an alcove under the steps. A narrow mattress lay on the floor, two threadbare blankets and a small pillow resting on it.

“We’ll hide here,” he said.

Monika eyed the cramped space. “Is this where you live?” 

He nodded, put a finger to his lips, and motioned her under the stairs with the children. “Be quiet so no one hears,” he said. “The soldiers may come to the door.”

Monika sat beside the girls and wrapped her arms around them. “Please be quiet,” she whispered. 

“We will,” Hedy promised as Ruth nodded.

The man sat beside them, and they huddled together.

Monika felt the girls trembling, their lives lived in fear. She would protect them, take care of them, do whatever was needed. Seconds passed, ticking by slowly, their hearts racing. They could hear faint voices from the street, but couldn’t tell what words were said. 

The door opened abruptly, squeaking on its hinges. A set of footsteps stomped on the vestibule tiled floor, followed by another. Then it was quiet.

Monika’s heart thumped against her chest. Whoever came in hadn’t climbed the stairs. The man who helped her cringed and then nodded, acknowledging what she suspected. It had to be the soldiers. It could be no one else. They stood meters away, neither speaking, waiting for a noise or word that was carelessly uttered.

She pulled the girls close, sweat dotting the back of her neck. She could hear quick breaths, their little hearts pounding.

Seconds passed, seeming an eternity. It was eerily quiet. Two adults and two children separated from two Nazis by only a set of stairs.

“No one is here,” a soldier said.

They left, the door closing behind them.

The man nudged Monika, his finger to his lips. They waited, making no sounds, her arms around the children, so young and vulnerable. After several minutes passed, and they saw or heard no sign of the soldiers, he quietly rose. “I will check,” he whispered.

“Be careful,” she hissed.

He tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out. A moment later, he returned.

“Did you see them?” she asked, her heart still racing.

“I did,” he said. “They’re down the street in front of the butcher shop, questioning those who pass. They don’t know where you went. We’ll wait a few more minutes, and then I’ll check again.”

Monika breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugged. “You would do the same for me.”

She paused, surprised by what he said. How could he have sensed that she would have helped him? “Who are you?” she asked.

“Janik Stern,” he replied.

“I’m Monika Graf,” she said. “And the children are Hedy and Ruth.”

“Hello, Hedy and Ruth.” 

They smiled. “We’re cold,” Hedy said.

“Take this blanket,” he said, wrapping it around them. “It’ll keep you warm until it’s time to leave.”

Monika studied Janik, goodness oozing from every pore. “How did you know to help us?” 

“I was in the line at the emigration center,” he said. “I fled when the man was shot. You weren’t far behind me, stealing the little girls away.”

She knew then that she could trust him. He was a Jew running from demons just as she was.

“Why not wait for your visa?” she asked. “You weren’t in any danger. The girls were.”

“The man the Nazis killed knew secrets the soldiers don’t tell,” he said.

“But he told you?”

He nodded. “And the others. A soldier tried to stop him. He ran away, and they killed him.”

“Whatever he said must have been bad if you ran away, too,” she said, not sure she wanted to know.

“It was bad,” he said. “Worse than most can imagine.”

She studied him closely, searching his soul. He had a kind face with sad eyes that failed to hide a muted pain. She wondered where it came from.

“You may not believe me,” he continued. “No one else would either.”

“I might,” she said, wavering. 

He smiled once he knew she trusted him. “I will tell you everything,” he said. He nodded to the children. “But not now.”

She understood. He didn’t want to frighten them more than they already were. “When will you tell me?” 

“Whenever you like,” he said. He waved his arm around the vestibule, again flashing a smile. “You know where to find me. This is where I live.”

She eyed the cramped space, wondering what drove him there. Maybe the story lived in his eyes—the sadness he couldn’t shake. She noticed a wooden toolbox against the wall. “Are you a carpenter?”

He shrugged. “I can be.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she didn’t pry. She suspected they would be friends, but wondered if it was wise. It was risky in a world that hated Jews. But she wasn’t afraid. She never had been. “I live only a block or two away.”

“I’ll tell you more when the little ones aren’t here,” he said. “If you’re sure you want to know.”

“I do,” she said.

“It isn’t easy,” he said. 

“It hasn’t been for years,” she said, wondering what his life had been like.

“No, not for me,” he said softly. “Not for many. It’s hell with no chance of heaven. Most just don’t know.”

She wanted to hear his story, to know the source of his pain. But it wasn’t the time. Not now.

He got up and went to the door. He cracked it open slowly and peeked out. After a moment had passed, the door closed and he came back. 

“The soldiers are gone.”  

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John Anthony Miller

John Anthony Miller writes all things historical—thrillers, mysteries, and romance. He sets his novels in exotic locations spanning all eras of space and time, with complex characters forced to face inner conflicts—fighting demons both real and imagined. He’s published twenty novels and ghostwritten several others, including Another Soul Saved. He lives in southern New Jersey.

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