Iron & Hemlock: A Victorian Gothic Romance Collection

Ever wonder what would happen if you got zapped by lightning into Victorian England and discovered your mysterious savior was running a supernatural boarding house?

Meet Griffin Hall—part Gothic mansion, part magical sanctuary, part elaborate matchmaking scheme courtesy of a house with serious opinions about who belongs together. The residents include gargoyles with trust issues, a shapeshifting griffin lord and enough romantic tension to power the gas lamps.

Three interconnected paranormal romances where love meets magic:

Jordan & Griffin - Time-traveling modern woman crashes into 1837 and straight into the arms of a shapeshifting lord who's definitely not following proper Victorian courtship rules. Between dodging supernatural assassins and navigating culture shock, Jordan discovers that some things are worth fighting across centuries for.

Cachet & Rook - She's the last unmated gargoyle female in England. He's one of four brothers competing for her attention. When magical mate marks start appearing on the wrong hands, someone's playing with forces that could destroy them all. Good thing gargoyle ladies don't back down from a fight.

Fiona & Howl - A chocolatier fleeing persecution finds safety with a sheep-farming gargoyle who's sweeter than her finest truffles. Their whirlwind courtship faces deadly magical trials, but when you've found your perfect match, you fight for it—even if ancient enemies want your bloodline extinct.

These heroines don't wait for rescue—they grab destiny, shake it until it cooperates, and look fabulous doing it. The heroes are protective without being controlling, alpha without being jerks, and absolutely devoted once they fall.

Expect witty banter, found family chaos, a house that rearranges itself when the mood strikes, and just enough steam to fog up the windows. Sweet romance with bite, where the real magic happens between the pages.

HEA guaranteed. Victorian propriety optional.

Perfect for fans of Ilona Andrews and anyone who thinks Jane Austen needed more gargoyles.

✨Read a sample now:

Part I: Jordan & Griffin

Chapter 1

Iron & Hemlock

Jordan flinched and shielded her eyes. Lightning lit the darkness behind her lids, burned into her vision in lingering dots as she slowly lowered her hand. She blinked, disoriented.

Death was a lonely country road?

It made sense she was confused. Just moments ago, she’d been crossing the street in Spokane, heading for the bus. The Porsche had come screaming around the corner, engine snarling like it had a score to settle. She’d known she was dead. But the lightning had struck first. Had it knocked her out of the way?

She drew a shaky breath. The air here was damp and sharp, heavy with the scent of wet leaves and ozone. No city. No sun overhead. Just whispering trees and a crawling sense of wrong.

A cold wind knifed through her jeans, stealing warmth. She tugged her leather jacket tighter and silently thanked the vanity that made her wear cashmere and silk, even on a warm morning. Her suede boots weren’t so lucky—already waterlogged and squishing with every step.

Lightning flashed again, revealing a massive stone wall lining the dirt road. She glanced behind her. No lights. No people. Just blackness. Ahead, a wrought iron gate pierced the wall. Its panels hung open, swaying slightly in the wind like they were waiting for her.

As she approached, torches flared to life above the gate, casting flickering light on the gravel path. She looked up—and flinched. Gargoyles flanked the wall, fierce and fanged.

One of them blinked.

Jordan froze. She wasn’t the type to scream and bolt. She stared at the statue, willing it to move again. It didn’t. Stone. Obviously.

Still, she felt watched. She turned, but the night behind her was empty. And yet, something was out there. Something that didn’t need eyes.

She slipped through the gates. Behind her, the wind shoved them shut with a metallic clang. They didn’t reopen.

Hoofbeats thundered toward her. She froze. Then ran.

She didn’t need lightning to see the flames shooting from the head of the midnight stallion charging her way. His eyes and nostrils blazed. Sparks flew where his hooves struck, and the ground trembled.

He wasn’t here for oats.

She didn’t get far before unseen hands snatched her from the ground and flung her onto the horse’s back. “Hide her, Sam!” someone shouted. She clutched the mane, scrambling to stay on. Falling off was worse than riding.

She wasn’t a rider. One glance behind her unbalanced her, and she tumbled off. She hit the wet lawn hard, stunned and winded.

A scream tore through the storm. Jordan turned her head, blinking through the rain. Lightning flashed—and she saw a woman battling a griffin.

No time to argue with reality. The woman was losing. Jordan grabbed a fallen branch and staggered upright. She trampled through a flowerbed, ignoring the crushed daisies, and ran.

Too late, she realized her mistake. The “woman” was a wraith—bones showing through rotted flesh, ribs visible beneath tattered rags. She hovered, swinging a rusted sword. The griffin dodged, wings flaring.

Then the wraith saw Jordan.

Its red eyes lit. It screamed—a piercing shriek that dropped Jordan to her knees. She clamped her hands over her ears, but the pain was blinding. Her ears had to be bleeding. She moaned, teeth clenched.

The wraith forgot the griffin. Bad move.

He sprang, shredding flesh with talons. The wraith writhed. With one final snap of his beak, he severed her head.

Jordan gasped as the pain vanished. She lay trembling, watching the griffin tear the corpse apart. Her fingers found the branch again. She backed away slowly, eyes down.

She hadn’t gone three feet when she bumped into something. It moved.

Jordan spun and swung the branch with everything she had. She hit something—hard—and didn’t wait to see what. She ran.

The griffin landed in front of her, wings flaring. She skidded, slipped, and landed on her butt with a wet squish. She braced for death.

Instead, the griffin sat back and calmly cleaned its talons.

Jordan blinked. Slowly, she got to her feet. Shapes loomed around her, breathing in the dark. She gripped the branch tighter.

“It was brave of you to attack the banshee,” the griffin said.

“Foolish,” someone muttered.

“I wasn’t attacking her,” Jordan said. “I didn’t realize what she was until I got closer.” Technically, she hadn’t known until the griffin spoke, but she wasn’t about to admit that.

The wind cut through her again. Her teeth chattered. She grit them to stop.

“You’re cold,” the griffin said. “You should go in.”

“Great idea,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

No one moved.

Lightning flashed, stark and blinding, revealing gaps in the circle of monstrous bodies that surrounded her. Wings flared. Claws twitched. Stone eyes glowed faintly in the stormlight. Jordan took a breath—sharp, cold—and darted through the nearest opening.

She didn’t look back.

She speed-walked to the front door, boots squelching, sweater clinging, heart hammering.

She hoped no one followed.

The driveway stretched like a dare—at least a quarter mile long. Jordan could only snatch lightning-lit glimpses of the mansion, but what she saw looked old and Gothic, like something built to intimidate. Were there people inside? The darkened windows didn’t say. They loomed, silent and blank, just enough to keep her from sprinting.

If the place was deserted, would a door or window be unlocked? The griffin had told her to go in. Did he know the people inside?

The storm was escalating fast, morphing into one of the worst she’d ever seen. Whips of lightning split the sky with unnatural frequency, like the heavens were having a tantrum. One bolt speared an ancient oak not fifty yards away, splitting it clean in two. The thunder followed instantly, deafening her, swallowing her shriek.

Jordan decided she didn’t care if the mansion housed a battalion of zombies—she ran for it. Stumbling up the stone steps, she skidded to a halt and pounded on the door with everything she had. “Hello? Help! Please let me in!” She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting claws or hooves to come flying out of the dark.

It took a determined round of banging on the iron knocker before the door groaned open. An old woman stood there, black eyes gleaming, nose taking up half her face. She scowled. “We’re not open to travelers.”

Jordan straightened, trying to recover some dignity. “Ma’am, I know we’ve never met, but I’d be grateful if you’d let me in. I—”

Thunder crashed, interrupting her. The wind howled like something denied its prey.

The old woman’s expression shifted. “Well now. Got the banshee after you, have you?” She gave a sharp-toothed smile to the storm. “Perhaps I ought to let you in after all.”

She yanked Jordan inside just as the wind tried to suck her back out. The door slammed shut with a finality that made the silence feel eerie.

The woman sniffed. “Nothing like hemlock and iron to keep out unwanted guests.” She picked up an oil lamp from a side table and gave Jordan a once-over. “Come. You’re dripping on the floors.”

Jordan followed, taking in the dusty elegance. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Jordan Hearst.”

The woman raised a brow nearly as thick as her nose. “You may call me Mrs. Yuimen. I am the keeper of the kitchens.” She led the way through a great hall with a polished table and murky floors. “The housekeeper left some time ago. Has yet to be replaced. You can see it needs attending.” She said it like Jordan was the new hire.

Jordan blinked. “I see.” She didn’t dare offend Mrs. Yuimen. Not when she’d just been rescued from a banshee. “I really appreciate—”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Yuimen interrupted. “Now, be seated and I’ll pour you some tea.” She gestured to a rocker and a stool by the old brick hearth.

A one-eyed cat glared up from the rug and growled. Jordan squished over, choosing the stool. No way she was stealing the cook’s throne.

She eyed the reddish cat and the green flames licking the hearth. “I’ve never seen a fire burn green before.”

“Driftwood,” Mrs. Yuimen said, setting up a teacart with brisk efficiency.

“Oh.” Jordan blinked. “Are we by the sea?”

Mrs. Yuimen gave her a look—odd, unreadable—but didn’t answer.

The kitchen was spotless, almost unnervingly so. The worktables were nicked and battered but polished to a shine. Stacks of wooden bowls and crockery lined the shelves, and ropes of garlic, onions, and herbs hung from the beams. The stone floors were swept clean, and the tiled stove was immaculate. Even the copper kettle gleamed like it had been buffed by obsessive fairies.

Mrs. Yuimen rolled the cart over and poured the tea.

“Thank you,” Jordan said, accepting a plate of cold ham, apples, and cheese from a birch platter. Water dripped down her neck, chilling her further. She wrung out her hair and tried to squeeze some moisture from her sweater.

Mrs. Yuimen made an impatient sound and handed her a towel. “Here. You’re making a mess. And take off your clothes while I fetch a blanket.”

“Th-thank you.” Jordan stripped quickly, grateful for the quilt and borrowed slippers. She watched Mrs. Yuimen wring out her clothes and hang them near the fire. Steam rose, but they’d be wet for hours.

“I was wondering,” Jordan said, “do you have a phone? I’d like to call a cab.” She bit her lip. What good would a cab do? She wasn’t in the city. She wasn’t even sure she was in the same century.

Mrs. Yuimen turned, eyes gleaming too black, too large. Her gray hair looked like wet soot—alive, almost. “I suspect you’re not asking about a hansom, which you won’t find here. And unless ‘phone’ is a new term for footman, I think you’ll be disappointed.”

Jordan opened her mouth to respond, but thunder cut her off. She glanced at the window—and froze.

A man stood in the shadows, just behind the workbench. His chest was bare, the rest obscured by bowls and counter.

“Who are you?” she demanded, trying not to look below his eyes.

Mrs. Yuimen didn’t flinch. “Oh, Lord Griffin! This is Jordan Hearst. She was caught in the rain tonight. Join us for tea?”

Griffin stepped closer, smiling into Jordan’s wide eyes. “We’ve met.”

Jordan stared. His hair was tawny and crested, more feather than strand. His nose was hooked, his jaw strong, chin pointed. His eyes were dark, flecked with gold. Her heart kicked into overdrive.

“Griffin?”

He cocked his head like a hawk sizing up prey. She took that as confirmation—and fainted.

She didn’t think she’d been out long. Griffin’s feathery hair was still dripping when she came to. Drops landed on her nose, waking her.

She sat up carefully. No new aches. Then she noticed he was naked. Since he was crouched beside her, nothing scandalous was showing. Still, he was...impressive. Fighting monsters must be excellent exercise, because every inch of him was toned.

She shook her head, dizzy. “I think I could use some whiskey.”

He helped her back onto the stool. “I’ll bring you some brandy. It’ll take the chill out better than tea.”

She watched him move to the cupboard. Mrs. Yuimen handed her a jam tart, and Jordan tried not to stare while Griffin poured the drink. It was difficult. There was a lot to admire.

He caught her looking.

“My apologies,” he said. “I’ve run with my brothers too long.” He reached into a lower cupboard and pulled out a tablecloth, wrapping it around his waist with practiced ease. “Better?”

Jordan lowered her gaze. “Sure,” she murmured, noncommittal.

He returned to the fire and handed her the brandy. “See if that helps.”

It did. It helped her stay calm as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her, sipping tea.

He smiled at Mrs. Yuimen, then turned to Jordan. “You’re doing very well. I imagine most damsels would be in hysterics by now.”

“American girls are tough,” she said. “We don’t blink at drinking liquor with half-naked, shape-shifting griffins. Though if we were back home, I’d probably be having an Irish coffee—with extra Irish.”

“Ah.” He paused, maybe organizing his thoughts. “You came through our gates earlier, trailing banshees and storm gremlins. I wonder what they wanted with you?”

Jordan exhaled shakily. If she’d had any lingering doubts about his identity, they were gone now. “It really was you outside.”

“Mm. My brothers were there, too.” He sipped his tea, watching her carefully.

He was right to be concerned. Hysterics loomed, but she stared at the ceiling until they passed. “I don’t know what they wanted.” She met his eyes. “I have a question, though. Where am I?” Her voice cracked. “I’m supposed to be in America.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he set down his teacup.

“You’re in England, darling. I’m curious how you missed the transition. I’m told it’s a three-month journey by ship.”

She frowned hard, trying to suppress the rising panic. Still, she wasn’t entirely shocked—both Griffin and Mrs. Yuimen spoke with British accents. “I was struck by lightning,” she said. “It did things to my memory. Tell me... what year is it?”

Griffin’s curiosity deepened. “It’s the twelfth of July, 1837. We’ve a new queen on the throne.” He paused, studying her. “You’re looking rather pale. Can I get you something?”

Her lip trembled. “Starbucks,” she whispered. “The Internet. Real books.” Sure, she liked Pride and Prejudice, but it didn’t hold a candle to a modern werewolf romance. They had what, Shakespeare here? She wanted to cry.

To hide it, she stared into the green fire. If she’d had anywhere to go, she’d have bolted.

Griffin exchanged a glance with Mrs. Yuimen. “Our guest is tired. Would you prepare a room for her? I’ll keep her company until you return.”

Mrs. Yuimen left without a word. Griffin turned back to Jordan, thoughtful. “I’m wondering what happened before you arrived at our estate. The lads at the gate said you appeared ‘between one lightning flash and another.’ Normally, they’d have smelled you coming.”

Jordan took a deep breath. The brandy was loosening her tongue. Maybe he could help. “The lightning brought me.” When he didn’t interrupt, she continued, “I was crossing the road. A car almost hit me—I swear it was aiming—and then I was here. Well, in the road. I don’t know how.” Despair clawed at her composure. “I just want to go home.”

“Hm.” He stared into the fire, silent for a long moment. “I’m no Traveler myself. I don’t know how it’s done. Unfortunately, those who do aren’t the sort you can trust to send you home. They’re more the type to drag you to their lair and keep you.” He smiled, like he understood the impulse. “I suppose we’ll just have to keep you ourselves.”

Jordan’s spine straightened. “I’m not a lost puppy.”

“So I see,” he said, voice low and amused. “Still, you need a dry place to sleep. I can offer that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Can you guarantee I’ll sleep alone?”

His gaze swept over her, lingering just long enough to remind her she wore only a blanket and borrowed slippers. He smiled. “You’ll be safe here—if you wish to be.”

Her stomach tightened with unwanted interest. Gorgeous, yes. But far too confident. She wasn’t about to encourage him. “Not interested,” she said firmly, setting aside her cup. No more brandy. Not with him in the room.

“Very well.” He rose and offered her a hand up, then tucked it neatly through his arm. The gesture was so courtly, she hesitated to object—though the heat of his skin against hers was distractingly pleasant. She tugged free. “I need both hands on the blanket.”

His smile turned wolfish. “Of course. We wouldn’t want it to slip.”

Jordan wasn’t used to blushing, so she stared straight ahead and ignored him. Movement caught her eye. She glanced out one of the rainy windows and stiffened as lightning flashed, illuminating large shapes prowling the yard.

Griffin followed her gaze. “Yes. They’re awake. And busy, I suspect. You’ve brought quite a storm with you. It’s fortunate you came to us. I doubt the neighbors would’ve handled it well.”

Jordan swallowed. “Are they like you? Griffins and such?”

He grinned. “I’m afraid not. Mostly ordinary. Careful on the stair—those slippers are a bit large.” His hand hovered protectively near her back as she ascended the marble steps. She glanced over the railing.

Below, the Victorian room stretched wide beneath a vaulted ceiling trimmed in dark mahogany, its beams carved with ivy and foxglove motifs. A chandelier hung low and heavy, its crystal teardrops catching the lightning outside and scattering fractured rainbows across the parquet floor. The wallpaper was a faded damask—rose and gold—warmed by the flicker of gas sconces that lined the walls like watchful sentinels.

From the stairs, she could see the curve of a fainting couch upholstered in wine-colored velvet, angled just so beside a marble fireplace whose mantle bore a row of tarnished silver frames. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the corner, its pendulum swinging like a heartbeat. The scent of beeswax and old paper lingered in the air, mingling with the distant trace of lavender.

A pair of gargoyle bookends flanked the hearth, their wings curled protectively around a stack of leather-bound volumes. And just beyond them, in the shadowed alcove near the bay window, something moved—a flicker, a shift, as if the room itself were adjusting to her presence.

She shivered.

“Easy now. Nothing will hurt you.” His voice was a deep murmur. His hand gently pressed her back, probably in reassurance. She wished it wouldn’t. The heat of his hand was more dangerous than the oversized footwear.

She followed him through the drafty, dim house in silence. The only light came from Griffin’s candle and the occasional flash of lightning. Stern oil paintings frowned down at her. Sculptures of plaster and worm-eaten wood watched with solemn, chiding eyes. The house breathed around her—expectant. She had the uneasy sense that something was required of her.

To distract herself, she said, “You’ve got a lot of art. I keep expecting to run into the statue of David.”

He smiled. “You won’t find stone statues here. Gargoyles are touchy about that sort of thing. The idea of being trapped forever in stone...”

Jordan frowned. “Gargoyles?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss that yet. She was already on edge. This felt too much like a B horror movie.

They reached a lighted doorway. Griffin paused and looked in. “Mrs. Y has been busy.”

Jordan peered inside.

Mrs. Yuimen grunted in satisfaction. “We’ve not had guests in years. Had to pull the Holland covers and fetch fresh bedding.” A fire burned in the hearth—yellow and orange, blessedly normal.

Mrs. Yuimen opened a cupboard and removed a neatly folded square of white. She shook it out, revealing a long-sleeved cotton nightgown with tiny buttons down the front. Blue flowers and silver vines embroidered the bodice and hem. She laid it across the bed. “There you are. And I brought warm water for washing.” She pulled a jug from beneath the tea trolley and poured steaming water into the washstand. “That should be that until morning.”

Jordan hesitated, acutely aware of Griffin beside her. His presence made the room feel too small. “It looks very comfortable. Thank you.”

Mrs. Yuimen nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning. We rise early.” She let herself out.

Jordan glanced at Griffin. He hadn’t moved. “Well. Good night, then.”

He smiled—slow, warm. “It has been. I’ve enjoyed your company.”

Her blood felt thick, her heartbeat too strong. She wished she hadn’t touched the brandy. She licked her lips, searching for a reply... and he kissed her.

She forgot what she’d meant to say. His lips were soft, scorching. Or maybe she was the one burning. Her insides were in full meltdown.

His hands were gentle but firm—one sliding into her hair, the other spanning her waist. He kissed like they’d done this before. Like he had the right.

It took long moments before she could pull back. “I don’t know you.”

He brushed her hair from her face. “You know this.” When she looked away, he added, “You’re a widow, aren’t you?”

She stared at him. “How did you know?” Then it hit her—1837. He’d have certain ideas about “good women.” Ironically, he was right.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said.

“That’s not exactly true,” she hedged, backing into the room. “I don’t understand what you are.”

He studied her. “One advantage to being more than a man—I can sense exactly how you feel. It’s... difficult to resist.”

She swallowed. “Make an effort. If for no other reason, you don’t want complications tonight.” She hadn’t been ready to risk her heart again. Not since her husband died nearly two years ago. He was...dangerous.

To her surprise, his eyes flared with interest. “Don’t be so certain. If I thought such a thing were possible...” He stepped back, carefully. “Some matters require a more deliberate courtship. I’ll have to consider this.”

He bowed slightly. “Goodnight.”

Before Jordan could ask what he meant, he was gone.