Summary:
A tender and triumphant story of forbidden love in the aftermath of war
When Captain Ashleigh Arthur Dalton went to war in 1914, he never expected to fall in love. Yet over three long years at the front, his dashing batman, Private West, became his reason for fighting—and his reason for living.
But Ash’s war ends in catastrophe. Gravely wounded, he’s evacuated home to his family’s country house in Highcliffe. Bereft of West, angry and alone, Ash struggles to re-join the genteel world he no longer understands.
For Harry West, an ostler from London’s East End, it was love at first sight when he met kind and complex Captain Dalton. Harry doubts their friendship can survive in the class-bound world back home, but he knows he’ll never forget his captain.
When the guns finally fall silent, Harry finds himself adrift in London. Unemployed and desperate, he swallows his pride and travels to Highcliffe in search of work and the man he loves. Under the nose of Ash’s overbearing father, the men’s intense wartime friendship deepens into a passionate, forbidden love affair.
But breaching the barriers of class and sexuality is dangerous and enemies lurk in Highcliffe’s rose-scented shadows.
After giving their all for their country, Harry and Ash face a terrible choice—defy family, society and the law to love as their hearts demand, or say goodbye forever...
Original Review November 2022:
This is going to be a review snippet as I just finished The Last Kiss, I imagine I'll have a few things to add to my review in the days ahead, but it's important for me to get this posted today on Veteran's Day.The Last Kiss is heartbreaking but also heartwarming, from brothers-in-arms to friendship to lovers, Harry and Ash's journey will play havoc with your heart by twisting your emotions every which way. You definitely can't walk away without truly learning a much needed appreciation for what our past endured.
Now having said that, don't think The Last Kiss is the author's attempt at a history lesson, it is still an exceptional cast of characters(some you'll love, some you'll hate, some you'll want to completely enshrine in bubble wrap to protect them) in a well crafted, brilliantly detailed setting that lets the reader live the time and still enjoy the fiction.
Even if you are not much on historicals, I highly recommend Sally Malcolm's The Last Kiss. Not only will you have a glimpse into the past, enjoy an incredible tale of friendship and love, but also you just might learn something about yourself and what is truly important in life. Definitely not one to be missed.
Edited Comments:
It's been a whole day since I finished The Last Kiss and truth is, my original yesterday touched my thoughts pretty accurately. I guess the only thing I didn't take a minute to mention was how much I loved Olive Allen. A character ahead of her time and yet equally representative of more women than one thinks about in post-WW1 era. She wants more than her sex and social status deems acceptable. For different reasons but the same restraints plagued her as the era placed on men like Ash and Harry. Side characters such as Olive don't always come across as genuine but Sally Malcolm has brought to the story another layer of what the era held for so many beyond the main pairing. What I wouldn't give to see where these people were in a post-WW2 era, to see how they were able to move forward and carve out a life for themselves when society was in line to fight them all the way.
Again, I highly recommend The Last Kiss for anyone who loves a well written tale of drama, romance, friendship, and heart.
CHAPTER ONE
12th October 1917, Flanders, Belgium
Ash’s fingers had grown stiff and cold around the pen. He’d lost track of how long he’d been sitting there, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him, watching it waver in the flinching candlelight. Above him, the guns thundered on, spitting their full-throated hatred at the enemy.
There were, perhaps, two hours until dawn.
Dislodged by the bombardment, dirt sifted down onto his makeshift desk — something West had cobbled together to allow him to take a stab at writing the letter before the next push. If only the words would come.
The gas curtain across the doorway stirred and Ash looked up as footsteps clumped down the wooden stairs. They weren’t very deep here; firing line dugouts never were. He was lucky to have this modicum of privacy and didn’t object to the intrusion. Welcomed it, in fact, because he recognised that steady tread and the broad figure that accompanied it: Private West, his batman. And friend, though propriety kept them from admitting as much.
“Thought you’d be sleeping, Captain.”
Ash smiled. “You thought no such thing.”
“Hoped then.” West had to stoop beneath the corrugated iron ceiling; he was a fine figure of a man, taller and broader than Ash. He set a mug of tea on the desk. “Made you a cuppa, sir.”
“I won’t ask by what miracle you managed that.” Laying down his pen, Ash wrapped his cold fingers around the enamel mug and inhaled the steam. Not much like the tea his mother would serve at Highcliffe House, but a bloody luxury in the firing line. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip. “I hope you made one for yourself, West.”
An equivocal wave of one hand — no, then. “Did you get any sleep, sir?”
“With this racket going on?”
“You need your rest. Busy morning ahead.”
Yes, busy was one word for it. Ash’s guts went watery in anticipation of what was to come. “I have to write this blasted letter to Tilney’s mother first. She deserves — ” He put down his mug with a thump, sloshing the tea, embarrassed that his hand had started shaking. Again.
Thing was, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jimmy Tilney.
The lad had bought it a week ago, during a night time reconnaissance patrol. Under fire, Tilney had fallen into a flooded shell hole and, despite their frantic efforts to reach him, he’d drowned in the mud. Over the years, Ash had grown numb to death, but that desperate drowning haunted him day and night. Tilney had been barely more than a boy and one of Ash’s men. He should have been able to save him.
West squeezed his shoulder, making Ash jump. He hadn’t noticed West move around behind the desk, and that wasn’t the first time he’d lost track of things in the last few days. Thoughts of Tilney kept intruding and distracting him. “We did what we could for him, sir,” West said. “Nothing more we could have done. Not with those sodding machine guns at work.”
The weight of his hand was a warm comfort and Ash leaned into his touch. He needed to write this bloody letter and put an end to the matter. “I don’t know where to start, is the thing. I’ve got no comfort to offer his poor mother.”
“Then tell her the truth.”
“The truth?” Startled, he looked up into West’s grim face. His eyes, a warm hazel in daylight, gleamed darkly in the guttering candlelight and his sunny blond curls were dulled to tarnished gold. But for all that, he was a beautiful man. Beautiful to Ash, at any rate.
“Tell her Jimmy was a fine lad. Tell her he made his friends laugh and the local girls swoon, and that we enjoyed listening to him playing that sodding penny whistle. Tell her he served his king and country with honour and that he died bravely.”
“He died crying for his mother.”
West squeezed his shoulder again. “Spare her that, sir. But the rest is true — or, true enough.”
“True enough. Perhaps, if the people at home knew the real truth, they’d find a way to end this...this bloody farrago of a war.”
“She’s his mother, sir.”
“I know. But it feels like lying. I don’t want to lie anymore, West. Bad enough that I’m the one who...who...” Suddenly, he could taste the metallic tang of the whistle in his mouth. Hear its sharp screech in his ears.
Over we go boys. Good luck!
“Drink your tea, sir. And write your letter — you won’t rest till it’s done. Then maybe we could read for a spell, until... Until it’s time. We left Watson at a dramatic moment yesterday.”
Despite everything, Ash found a smile. West had the astonishing ability to cheer him even in the bleakest of circumstances. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
He picked up his pen and began to write, plucking out as much truth as he could find and offering what small comfort was possible. God knew it wasn’t much. After all this time, it should have become easier and yet each letter was harder than the last. They all felt like lies.
When the job was done, he took his tea over to the narrow pallet on which he’d failed to find any rest. West joined him there and they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the sandbags, with the candle set on an overturned crate at West’s side. From his breast pocket, West pulled out Ash’s copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and opened it to the right page. Ash sipped his tea and then offered the mug to West. “Go on,” he said when West declined, “I know you’ve had none yourself. We’ll share it. I’ll read first, then we’ll swap.”
And so he began. “Chapter Twelve: Death on the Moor. ‘For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world... ‘Holmes!’ I cried — ‘Holmes!’”
He read on until West nudged the mug against his hand and they swapped again, Harry reading while Ash finished the tea. Overhead the guns continued to smash the German lines — such was the plan, at least — and despite the noise, with West’s warm body next to him, Ash’s exhaustion finally began to overwhelm him. Setting the empty mug aside, he let his head sink onto West’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when he felt West’s cheek come to rest against the top of his head, but smiled as he listened to him read until the words blurred and slurred...
“Captain Dalton.” He was woken by West’s hand on his arm, a gentle shake. “Sorry, sir, but it’s time.”
West sat next to him still, but the book was put away and Ash could see first light creeping around the edges of the gas curtain. His stomach clenched, his heart racing sharply. Morning had arrived, cold and cruel.
West’s hand tightened on his arm. “We’ll have to finish that chapter later, sir.”
Later. It felt as longed for and unreachable as home.
“I’m afraid I dropped off. We might have to repeat some of it.” Their gazes tangled and locked, too raw for bravado now. Ash’s faux bonhomie fell away. “Good luck today, West.”
West’s throat moved as he swallowed. “You too, Captain.”
Above them, the barrage continued unrelenting, their guns firing five miles west, towards the village they were attempting to take. Had been attempting to take since July. What the hell could be left of it now?
“It’s six-thirty, sir.”
Less than an hour to go. It was past time he was outside with the men. Ash rose and West helped him on with his trench coat, buttoning it like a London valet before handing him his tin hat. Another pause followed. Then Ash said, “I don’t want to…to let the men down today.”
“You, Captain? Not a chance.” West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get through it, don’t you worry. We’ll get through it together.”
How to explain that it wasn’t for himself that he worried, that there was something he feared more than his own death? Impossible, of course. The best he could do was grip West’s forearm. “Together.”
There was no more to be said. Ash led the way out into the miserable morning where his men watched him from drawn, frightened faces. None of them had slept, counting down the hours until the attack, and he felt guiltily grateful for his short reprieve with West.
“Taff,” he greeted the dark-eyed Welshman sitting smoking on the fire step.
Taff’s fingers shook as he lifted the gasper to his lips. “Captain Dalton.” His guarded gaze moved to the dugout and back, aware as all the men were — as Ash was — of the unearned privileges his rank enjoyed. “Get some kip?”
When the job was done, he took his tea over to the narrow pallet on which he’d failed to find any rest. West joined him there and they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the sandbags, with the candle set on an overturned crate at West’s side. From his breast pocket, West pulled out Ash’s copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and opened it to the right page. Ash sipped his tea and then offered the mug to West. “Go on,” he said when West declined, “I know you’ve had none yourself. We’ll share it. I’ll read first, then we’ll swap.”
And so he began. “Chapter Twelve: Death on the Moor. ‘For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world... ‘Holmes!’ I cried — ‘Holmes!’”
He read on until West nudged the mug against his hand and they swapped again, Harry reading while Ash finished the tea. Overhead the guns continued to smash the German lines — such was the plan, at least — and despite the noise, with West’s warm body next to him, Ash’s exhaustion finally began to overwhelm him. Setting the empty mug aside, he let his head sink onto West’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when he felt West’s cheek come to rest against the top of his head, but smiled as he listened to him read until the words blurred and slurred...
“Captain Dalton.” He was woken by West’s hand on his arm, a gentle shake. “Sorry, sir, but it’s time.”
West sat next to him still, but the book was put away and Ash could see first light creeping around the edges of the gas curtain. His stomach clenched, his heart racing sharply. Morning had arrived, cold and cruel.
West’s hand tightened on his arm. “We’ll have to finish that chapter later, sir.”
Later. It felt as longed for and unreachable as home.
“I’m afraid I dropped off. We might have to repeat some of it.” Their gazes tangled and locked, too raw for bravado now. Ash’s faux bonhomie fell away. “Good luck today, West.”
West’s throat moved as he swallowed. “You too, Captain.”
Above them, the barrage continued unrelenting, their guns firing five miles west, towards the village they were attempting to take. Had been attempting to take since July. What the hell could be left of it now?
“It’s six-thirty, sir.”
Less than an hour to go. It was past time he was outside with the men. Ash rose and West helped him on with his trench coat, buttoning it like a London valet before handing him his tin hat. Another pause followed. Then Ash said, “I don’t want to…to let the men down today.”
“You, Captain? Not a chance.” West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get through it, don’t you worry. We’ll get through it together.”
How to explain that it wasn’t for himself that he worried, that there was something he feared more than his own death? Impossible, of course. The best he could do was grip West’s forearm. “Together.”
There was no more to be said. Ash led the way out into the miserable morning where his men watched him from drawn, frightened faces. None of them had slept, counting down the hours until the attack, and he felt guiltily grateful for his short reprieve with West.
“Taff,” he greeted the dark-eyed Welshman sitting smoking on the fire step.
Taff’s fingers shook as he lifted the gasper to his lips. “Captain Dalton.” His guarded gaze moved to the dugout and back, aware as all the men were — as Ash was — of the unearned privileges his rank enjoyed. “Get some kip?”
“Hardly, with this racket.” Ash forced levity into his voice. “I dare say there’ll be post waiting when we get back to the relief trench. It feels like an age since you’ve had a letter. All of two days, I should think.”
Taff gave a reluctant smile. “My missus does like to write, sir.”
“And we all want to know what happened about…what was his name? Your neighbour’s story about the vicar and the missing pig.”
A flash of teeth. “Mrs. Evans. Terrible gossip, she is, sir. I don’t believe half of what she says.”
And so it went on, the excruciating duty of finding a word here and there for each of the men while they endured these last dreadful minutes of waiting, a grotesque noblesse oblige that Ash probably resented as much as his sullen, frightened men. His rank gave him no special insight when staring death in the eye and nobody knew that better than himself. But Little Bill looked rough, scared almost out of his wits, and Ash spared him a firm hand on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ll have a story to tell your sweetheart when you’re home, eh?” The boy nodded, eyes wide and glassy. Ash resisted the urge to hug him. Instead he had the rum passed around and let Little Bill drink liberally.
He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Half an hour to go.
His head felt woolly, blood pounding in his ears. Fear did that, he’d learned. Scattered your wits, broke your nerve. He looked up into the sky, fading remorselessly to grey, and made out the tangle of wire above them. A scrap of uniform fluttered there, dank in the dank morning. Some poor sod, dead. Him, maybe, in a matter of minutes.
Terror closed his throat, accelerated his racing heartbeat. He felt clammy and sick. God, he hoped he didn’t lose his nerve, not in front of the men. Men? Boys, some of them. Beautiful and full of life when they were laughing together behind the lines, kicking about a football or telling off-colour jokes. Grey-faced now, they looked even younger than their too-few years.
An odd thought struck him: at least Tilney had been spared this dreadful bloody wait. His drowning had been sudden, unanticipated. The thought almost made him laugh, but he swallowed the terrifying bubble of hysteria. Dangerous, that. Rum lingered in the back of his throat and his watery guts squirmed. If he survived this damned war, he’d never touch the stuff again.
Carefully, he set one foot on the ladder that would take him over. How far would he make it before he was cut down? Ten yards, a hundred? Would it be a shell or machine gun fire that did for him? If he made it to the German lines, maybe a bayonet to the belly. Or would he get stuck on the wire? His fingers, of their own accord, drummed out a tune on the ladder as if playing a mute piano.
If you want to find the private, I know where he is,
I know where he is, I know where he is.
If you want to find the private, I know where he is,
He’s hanging on the old barbed wire…
He felt for his whistle, secure on its leather lanyard. His mouth was dry. From along the line came a rumpus, someone shouting and quickly stifled. It took men like that sometimes, the long wait. It broke their nerve. And who could blame them? This was tortuous.
He checked his watch. Six fifty-nine.
Time was crawling, he’d never known it to move so slowly. And yet too fast. Their lives were measured in moments now. He cleared his throat. “Fifteen-minutes,” he told the men.
Behind him, feet shuffled as the men moved about, making whatever peace they could, bracing themselves to meet their fate. It would be easier to be one of them. The weight of giving the order, of leading men to their ends, felt heavy as iron.
A shoulder brushed his, solid and steady. He glanced sideways and found West watching him. In the growing daylight, he could see the warm hazel of his eyes and the curl of his golden hair beneath his tin hat. West’s friendship was everything to him here. He’d made the last three years bearable, even pleasurable at times. It wasn’t right, of course, for a man like Captain Ashleigh Arthur Dalton, son of Sir Arthur, to be friends with plain old Private Harry West. But friends they were, closer than brothers. How many nights had they spent in conversation or in reading aloud to each other, playing cards with the men or in Ash’s quarters? How many nights had they hunkered down side-by-side in the support trench, sharing warmth and the comfort of each other’s presence?
And if anything happened to West today, Ash didn’t know how he’d bear it.
Well, he couldn’t bear it. Simple as that.
He’d rather die himself than lose Harry West.
“I’ve still got your book in my bloody pocket,” West said quietly, smiling ruefully as he tapped his hip pocket. “Hope it doesn’t get too wet.”
Ash had to clear his throat before he said, “Sherlock Holmes?”
“Aye, sir. Should have left it in the dugout with the rest of your kit. Sorry.”
“Well.” Ash huffed an approximation of a laugh. “If we’re pinned down for any length of time, perhaps we’ll read the next chapter?”
West laughed at that. He had a deep, contagious chuckle. “Imagine that, sir. Fritz stumbling over us sitting there, reading a book, happy as can be.”
Ash snorted, his tension easing for a moment. And then rushing back in as a dozen horrible images unfolded in his mind, each more likely than the absurd one they’d painted. He checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”
West nudged his shoulder again. Not so much nudged as pressed their arms together. Ash returned the pressure, taking comfort from it. He hoped West did, too. “Mother said they’ve had a terrific crop of apples this year. I hope — ” He glanced at West. “When this is all over, I hope you’ll visit me at Highcliffe House. Our cook makes a marvellous apple crumble.”
A smile tugged West’s lips. “I’d like to see your stables, sir. And perhaps take a ride in that forest of yours.”
“The New Forest? Yes, it’s beautiful. Especially at this time of year — with the turning leaves, you know. The colours…” His throat tightened with a terrible yearning for the trees and heathland of his boyhood. “Christ, this was woodland once, West. And there’s not a single damn leaf to see for miles.”
“There will be again. One day.”
There was some comfort in that, he supposed. He flexed his fingers on the ladder, tapping out that little tune again.
If you want to find the private, I know where he is…
Time ticked on. “Five minutes, boys.”
“Captain Dalton?” West sounded different, low and urgent. He reached out and covered Ash’s hand where it rested on the ladder. “I want…” Their gaze locked and for a moment Ash saw in West’s eyes everything he couldn’t say, all the words neither of them could speak.
Ash turned his hand beneath West’s and wove their fingers together, squeezing hard. “Another chapter of Holmes later.” He made it a promise. “And a shot of whiskey at Toc H, if we’re lucky.”
After a lingering moment, West pulled his hand free. “Yes, sir.”
Ash checked the time. “Three minutes, boys.” His stomach pitched. “Affix bayonets.”
He managed his own, ruthlessly suppressing the tremors in his hands. Just as it clicked into place, the barrage stopped. The morning rang with sudden silence, Ash’s ears buzzing in the absence of noise. This was it then. “Two minutes,” he said quietly, heart pounding like a terrified rabbit’s. He had to swallow twice before he said, “First rank to the fire step.”
Behind him and at his side, his men lined up. Looking down the line, he could hardly bear to see their ashen faces, some fixed as granite, others mobile with fear, lips moving in silent prayer or other incantation. Ordinary men, ordinary boys staring death in the eye. God, but he ached with the pity of it all.
“One minute.” Thank God his voice didn’t shake. Eyes fixed on his watch, he lifted the whistle to his lips. It tasted chill and metallic, worse than the rum.
The minute hand ticked to 07:15.
From down the line came the first shrill blast, slicing through the deathly silence. Ash blew his own piercing whistle and began to climb. “Off we go, boys. Good luck!”
Hard on his heels, West growled, “And God help us all.”
Then no man’s land stretched out before them, a pockmarked hellscape of blasted trees and mud and death. Low cloud crouched above them, as heavy and bleak as the cratered ground beneath their feet. Ash’s mind turned sluggish with fear, focus narrowing only to the few yards around him, heart hammering loud in his ears. He knew only that he must advance and keep his men with him. “Stay in line!” he shouted, conscious of West’s steady presence at his left as they ran forward in a half-crouch, slip-sliding in the treacherous, drowning mud. Gunfire sounded to their right, but nothing close to them yet. Perhaps they’d be lucky. Perhaps this time the bombardment really had taken out the German guns. He kept going, leading his men on, deeper into the wasteland.
They’d covered almost a hundred yards before machineguns opened fire, raking across their line. Someone dragged Ash down into the mud: West, his hand fisted in Ash’s uniform.
“Find cover!” Ash yelled as his men fell and scattered.
And then the shells began, screaming overhead so close Ash could feel their scorching heat across his back. One hit behind them — almost in their trench — and the ground convulsed, raining mud and debris down over them. Laying prone, heart pounding hard against the earth, Ash prayed they wouldn’t be buried alive. Christ, any end but that.
Then West was tugging on his arm again, yelling something Ash couldn’t hear. Was he deaf? He scrambled to his feet. Smoke blew everywhere and he couldn’t see his men, but he sounded the whistle anyway to help them find their way to him as he staggered forward. Still advancing, as ordered.
They were under heavy fire now. So much for the bombardment knocking out the German guns. Another shell hit to their right, the concussion knocking Ash back to his knees and he went half-sliding over the lip of a flooded shell hole. Machine gun fire kept him down, arms over his head as bullets peppered the ground behind and before him.
West wasn’t holding his arm anymore. He couldn’t see him. Fuck.
“West?” He turned, squirming in the mud, and saw West on his hands and knees several yards back, shaking his head as if dazed. Ash’s heart seized. “West!” He couldn’t hear his own shout; the noise of the bombardment was ear-splitting. “West!”
He slithered backward, trying to find his feet. Through the blowing smoke, West kept appearing and then disappearing like a mirage. Or a ghost.
No. No, no, no. Not that. He wouldn’t lose him. He couldn’t.
Another smoky plume blew over them and away. West had struggled to his feet, still shaking his head. And in a single moment of clarity, as if the mists had parted, West lifted his head and their eyes met across the field of slaughter. Such a look! Relief, terror, desperation.
Love.
But then West’s eyes widened in horror. He flung his arm out, reaching for him, as the earth erupted beneath Ash’s feet.
For a second, he was airborne and the world fell silent. Then it rushed up to meet him, smashing the air from his lungs. Searing pain engulfed him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t move. Oblivion.
When he came back to himself, he was sprawled on his back, cradled in West’s arms, looking up at his dear face. His first thought was relief. West was alive. He looked unhurt as he held Ash up out of the sucking mud, a filthy hand stroking the hair from his face. But his eyes were red-rimmed, his mud-splattered face ashen. “It’s alright, Captain. I’ve got you. Everything’s alright.”
It wasn’t. Something was very wrong.
Ash felt paper thin, cold and fading. It was an effort to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t feel his legs and didn’t dare look, gazed only into West’s desolate eyes. All he needed to know was written plainly there. He tried to lift a hand to touch West’s face, but even that was too much. His lips formed a word — West’s name — but no sound came.
He felt no pain, only grief to be leaving him.
All around them the shrieking riot of war continued, but between them fell a terrible silence. “Oh God.” West’s voice broke and he clutched Ash against the sodden kaki of his jacket. “God, please.”
Ash was sinking, grey crowding the edges of his vision, but he tried again to speak. He had to. “Harry…” The name whispered past his lips, just loud enough to make West look at him. Ash tried to smile, to convey in these last moments how West had been everything to him in this nightmare — his solace, his succour, his burgeoning joy.
“Captain.” Pale tracks cut through the dirt on West’s face, tears gathering at the corner of his mouth. “Ashleigh….” He leaned down and kissed his brow like a mother might kiss her child, a last kiss offered to the dying.
Then he shifted and Ash felt the unfamiliar pressure of lips against his own, tasted mud and blood and salt tears. A lover’s kiss at last, its sweet promise unfulfilled.
When Ash woke again it was in a clearing station and to raging agony.
But Harry West was gone, sent back up the line to hell.
Sally was bitten by the male/male romance bug in 2016 and hasn’t looked back. Her stories are emotional, sweetly angsty, and always have happy endings.
She also writes tie-in novels for the hit TV shows STARGATE: SG-1 and STARGATE ATLANTIS. To date she’s penned nine STARGATE novels and novellas, and four audio dramas.
Sally lives in South West London with her American husband, two lovely children, and two lazy cats.
