Hello!

I'd like to introduce you to the heroes of the fourth book in the Baleful Godmother series, Claiming Mister Kemp. Yes, you read that correctly: this book has two heroes, and no heroine. (Although you will glimpse the heroines of the previous three books.)

Tom Matlock and Lucas Kemp have been close friends for years, and for most of that time they've been in love with each other—and doing their best to ignore the attraction between them. But Tom's back from fighting on the Peninsula, and things are about to change . . .

Here's a snippet from the first chapter. Tom's just arrived in London, and the first thing he does is visit his best friend.

He stared down at Lucas, sprawled in the armchair, disheveled and drunk. It didn’t take any feat of insight to guess why Lucas had chosen to spend his twenty-seventh birthday like this. The solitude, the alcohol, the tears were because of his dead twin sister, Julia.

Tom shook Lucas’s shoulder gently. “Come on, Lu. Time for bed.”

Lucas hunched away from his hand. “Go ’way,” he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

Tom uttered a faint laugh. This wasn’t the welcome he’d imagined. “No. I’m staying until you get into bed.”

“Want t’ be alone.”

“Tough. I’m not Smollet. You can’t tell me what to do.” He took Lucas’s arm and tried to haul him from the armchair.

Lucas pulled free. His eyes slitted open. He clumsily swung a blow.

“Easy, man,” Tom said, catching the fist.

Lucas’s eyes came fully open, his fist clenched in Tom’s hand—and then Lucas blinked, and bafflement crossed his face. His fist sagged. He peered at Tom owlishly. “Tom? That you, Tom?”

“Yes. Come on, on your feet.”

Lucas’s brow creased with confusion. “You’re in Portugal.”

“No, you cod’s head, I’m right here. On your feet.”

He hauled on Lucas’s arm again, and this time Lucas didn’t try to strike him.

Lucas was six foot two and built like a prizefighter, but Tom was two inches taller, and if he was leaner than Lucas, he was almost as strong. A grunt and a mighty heave and he had Lucas on his feet.

He slung Lucas’s slack arm over his shoulder. “Come on. Bed.”

Lucas couldn’t walk a straight line. Not only that, his legs kept buckling. Tom was out of breath by the time they reached the bedroom door. “Jesus, Lu, how much cognac did you have?”

“Dunno,” Lucas said, and uttered a discreet burp.

“You’d better not shoot the cat,” Tom said, warningly.

“Not tha’ drunk,” Lucas said, leaning bonelessly against him.

“Yes, you are—and I swear to God, Lu, if you vomit on me I’m going to shove you headfirst into the nearest privy.”

Lucas huffed a faint, cognac-scented laugh, and then sighed heavily. “I missed you.”

Tom tightened his grip on him. I missed you, too. He permitted himself to rest his cheek against Lucas’s hair for a brief second, and then thought, Fuck it, and pressed his face into Lucas’s hair and inhaled deeply.

Lucas didn’t notice; he was too drunk.

Tom closed his eyes and inhaled two more breaths. Nineteen years of friendship, and this was the closest they’d ever physically been. Almost hugging.

So, there you have it: two men who've been best friends for years, and whose relationship is about to change dramatically.



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum's collection of public domain images.]