Chapter 7

They somehow got through tea, the washing up and tidying away, and managed to sit down with a finger of whisky each without mishap and only slight distraction. They found their talk came more quickly and easily now; no more secrets or holding back. Sitting across from her, swilling his glass, Foyle eyed her, head tilted to one side. His face was no longer cloudy and a subtle peace seemed to have come across his features. Making a clear decision had almost taken off the years. Sam was curled in Andrew's customary chair, legs drawn up underneath her. She looked ever so at home there and he smiled.

"You realise I should like to marry you?"

She grinned at him from behind her tumbler, "Would you? I think I'd rather like that."

"Good." He gave her an upside down smile. "I'm going to be rather old fashioned and speak to your father first."

"Poor Father will probably die of shock."

"Erm…" He gave her a look with two raised eyebrows, tongue poised on his top lip to indicate his exasperation.

She giggled, "Never mind, Mummy will bring him around. Besides, I want to marry you and that's all that matter isn't it? Father likes you, really. He just didn't like me being mixed up in Police business."

"Never my intention. To get you mixed up in all this, that is."

Sam grinned over at him and with a slow blink, his face brightened into a soft smile.

"How long have you known?" she asked curiously, throwing him off guard.

He raised his eyebrows again, giving her a sideways glance. He took a sip of his whisky and said slowly, "From the moment we went to tea by the pier and you ate an entire plate of sandwiches like you'd been starved for a week. Got us the name of that chap too. We made a good team."

Sam put a hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh, "Truly? Golly."

"I shan't ask you the same question," he said, shifting uncomfortably, feeling slightly self conscious in his admission.

"I shall answer it anyway," she said smoothly. "When you saw I'd knocked down that ruffian on the beach with the bin lid, do you remember?"

Foyle smiled.

"You were so shocked. But I think it was really when you took me to dinner at Carlo's. Hmm, must be a food thing…"

"I see." He nodded, chewing his cheek. "So, a while then…"

"Just think, we could have enjoyed all this much sooner."

"I was your boss, Sam."

She sighed, "That's true. Of course I didn't really realise it for what it was. Too naive I suppose."

"I should, er, think so." He set his tumbler down, now empty. "Besides, I would have denied it."

"What changed your mind?" she asked, eyeing him keenly.

He bit his lip and fiddled with a loose button on his open vest. Very softly, with much emotion, Foyle said, "Because, Sam, you were caught in a rainstorm with me on a Sunday afternoon, when you might have been otherwise caught by a bullet."

She nodded, bottom lip beginning to tremble.

"Without you, darling Sam, my life would have seemed very grey." He found her eyes, "And you showed me I had no reason to deny happiness. I resisted because I thought it was for the best. I was…wrong. This is something we could no longer fight."

Foyle opening himself to her and admitting he was wrong was nothing easy, and he sighed wearily, passing a hand across his face. He looked over at her and nodded, seeing she understood. She stood and came to him, silent tears slipping down her face. Pulling her into his lap, he held her. "I shan't ever let you go, Sam."

Sniffing mightily in his ear, she said, "Or I you…I love you, Christopher."

She gripped his neck tightly as if to prove her point. They allowed this new intimacy to descend over them, becoming gradually accustomed to the new sensation.

Rubbing the soft material of the wrap between a forefinger and thumb, he nestled into her. He hadn't been able to part with Ros's things. They were all there upstairs in trunks, packed safely. Why didn't I go through them and give them away? They were just things after all, and he was sure he would hardly recognise most of them now. Hats and gloves, shoes and frocks…It seems silly to hang on to things that could be of use elsewhere. The jewellery is all for Andrew of course, when he wants to marry…Looking around the room over Sam's shoulder, Foyle conceded he would have quite a bit to change — it was exactly as it had been for twenty years, all decorated by his late wife. Her photograph took precedence on the mantel alongside Andrew's. Maybe I should sell and move us somewhere entirely new? A fresh start.

The window, with curtains still flung back, slowly darkened in the late summer evening, beginning at the edges. A street lamp was on for the first time in five years, throwing an odd light across the floor of Foyle's lounge. It was a comfortable cocoon and Foyle felt himself relaxing against her warmth, sleep beginning to sink over him.

"We have a long day tomorrow," Foyle whispered, "bed time, I think." He patted her arm.

She nodded against his shoulder, yawning sleepily, and slipped from his arms.

It was only when Foyle doused the lamps and followed Sam up the stairs that he felt his resolve trickling slowly away again. He gave himself a fortifying mental shake. On the landing he took her hand and kissed it. "Sleep well, my darling."

"You aren't banishing me to Andrew's room?"

Foyle's mouth dropped. "I…I…must. Sam, I can't…we…I haven't even spoken to your father…"

"Surely we can sleep beside one another without the fires of hell consuming us?"

Foyle continued to look at her in wide eyed astonishment, her nonchalance surprising him. "But…you can't just go hopping into any man's bed…"

"My mother always said the person you give yourself to shouldn't be just any old person. It should be someone you really love and cherish. Someone special. That it was important for you both." She smiled brightly at him, "So you see, there's no trouble really, because I love you and you aren't just anyone."

"B-but…" he stammered.

"Besides, I trust you implicitly and know you have my best interests at heart, so there."

She had wheedled him about cases in the past, about allowing her to be involved in things and helping out, and he had usually been able to manage her. Now he found himself in quite a new territory.

"I don't think you quite understand, Sam…"

She poked his arm, and said quietly, "I do, actually."

"Sam…" he said warningly, raising an eyebrow.

"I shan't come near you. I'll go right to sleep after prayer's, just you see."

He shook his head, feeling he was losing the battle.

"Look," she said softly, "we've been so close beside one another for years, and now we can finally be close. That's all I want."

He rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand. "As do I," he sighed.

"It isn't wrong, is it, Christopher? If we love each other?"

He chewed his cheek, conceding with a twitch of his lips that perhaps she had a point. "All right," he said, rolling his eyes with small huff, "but straight to sleep, mind."

She grinned at him.


I must be mad Foyle thought, staring up at the ceiling, doing his best not to sigh and wake her. She had done just as she'd promised: given him a quick, chaste kiss, said her prayers under her breath, shot him a meaningful look when she was done, and said goodnight, turning on her side away from him. He had chewed his lip, sliding in next to her, keeping to the very edge of his side of the bed.

Trying his best not to think about her was proving impossible. His stomach kept doing somersaults. She loves me! We are to be married! He kept glancing over at her to reassure himself it wasn't all a fancy. True to her word, she'd fallen asleep quickly in exhaustion. Foyle was wide awake, however, worrying and cursing silently that he wasn't free to toss and turn as he normally would have done.

I suppose I can slip away to Andrew's room... But the thought of her hurt when she awoke alone kept him still. Honestly, this is madness… He was fairly sure he could keep his desire for her in check…that was not the issue, but it rather was the horrifying thought of putting her reputation at risk that partly kept him awake. Though she'd say she was already staying here, and people would draw their own conclusions no matter what. She would be right too. Even when she was asleep she seemed to exude logic, and he suddenly grinned to himself in the dark. Really, I wouldn't stand a chance without her…

He stole one more glance at her, peacefully asleep beside him, and closed his eyes, a small smile playing about his lips. With that, he drifted off into a light sleep, waking each time she shifted, unused to sharing a bed. When he finally fell into a heavy sleep, however, it was troubled. Dreams seemed to plague him. First he dreamt of Andrew, cold worry sinking through his bones as he saw his son slip further and further away on an aeroplane that was crashed into the sea; then there was Sam, being held at gunpoint by a man with no face. No, I've only just found her… he thought, heart racing. He felt helpless to do anything. Sweat sprang out on his forehead and he groaned again and again until a cool hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

He started violently, turning to squint in the dark, breathing heavily.

"Shh," came a soft voice, "you were dreaming. It's all right."

He sank back on to the pillow, sighing heavily through his nose. "Sam?" he asked the darkness hoarsely.

"Who else?"

He drew a hand across his face and realised he was trembling. "Sorry…bad dream."

"It's all right," she said again.

The images of her at gunpoint returned, and he turned, pulling her roughly to him, arm heavy with sleep. "I don't want to lose you," he murmured. His words were slightly incoherent as his face was buried in the soft space between her shoulder and neck.

She stroked his hair gently. "Shh," she said again.

Sam moved her hand from his head to his neck, stroking comfortingly all the while. Her hands pressed at his shoulders and his arms flexed unconsciously around her. The strokes moved along his back, fingers whispering down his spine making him shiver. His lips were on hers then, gentle and without haste. They were measured, sleepy movements of night time kindling. The immensity of his love for her was pooled in his eyes as they adjusted to the dark.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered.

"Glad you did," she whispered back, smiling.

They talked then for a bit, easing into the comfort of each other's arms and letting the dark night wrap them up. She asked about his dream and he told her. They spoke of night time things, slowly and in low voices; patient and easy, all the while becoming closer through this shared affinity. The velvet tendrils of the summer dawn were beginning to show in the sky when they had exhausted themselves of talk.

Foyle felt her become heavier against his arm as sleep chased them. He liked the feel of her and he let his warm hand trace her outline. He felt the softness of her curves and let his fingers trace her breasts. She shivered under his hand and he felt his blood quicken.

"Do you think Milner would notice if I nicked that portrait of you…" he murmured, intent on the feel of her softness, looking at her through half lidded eyes.

Sam's eyes were still closed and she laughed. She shifted and drew him against her, lips tracing his face, one leg coming up to nudge him closer. Opening her eyes, he saw they were curious and Foyle's mouth twitched into a smile as he joined her exploration, letting his warm hands continue to learn the shape of her.

Leaning up to let her warm breath tickle his ear she whispered, "You can have the real thing…"

He breathed in deeply, feeling desire seep into his brain. I want her…

Reaching to find the hem of the nightie, Sam pulled, but he made to stay her hand.

"We can't…"

"I'm not asking you to," she said quietly.

He relaxed.

"A girl at the MTC, who knew too much for her own good really, once said…" she paused and reached up to whisper in his ear again.

He did not laugh or draw away, but showed her the consideration he had always done, and for that she was grateful. He merely nodded in solemn acknowledgement of her question. His respect for her was profound, in body and mind, and Foyle found himself admiring her as a whole being, rather than in parts. She amazed and delighted him, and this quiet reflection of her made his heart soar.

"There are other…" he lifted an eyebrow.

"Show me," she continued in her quiet voice.

Observing her for a moment, as if making up his mind, he nodded. "If it gets too much…"

She nudged him with her nose.

Feeling the need to preface his actions he said seriously, yet ever so softly, "You do not owe me anything nor do you lose yourself to me. You are your own being…"

"Yes of course," she murmured.

"All right?" He added, even though her eyes that met his squarely told him all he needed to know.

"I trust you."

It was all he required, and with same measured pace as before, entirely without haste or urgency, he began to give her a clue to what shared pleasure could be. Of mingling body and mind, air and warmth; bringing together movement and stillness, softness and firmness. Of lighting untouched senses in the other…They delighted in this subtle conjunction, aligning their minds with one another.

Foyle found himself conveyed to some higher place by her own tender ministrations. Her innocence was inclined to frighten him at first, and he was careful not to alarm her. But he needn't have worried, for Sam met him at each turn, as if she could read his mind. They made gentle forays of exploration of the other. Lips tracing, fingers grasping, teeth nipping carefully — an altogether thorough expedition.

Gentle hands now tugged at the silk and she helped him slip it off entirely. Her own fingers scrabbled at the buttons of his striped pyjama top. She admired the span of his chest, running a hand across the strong muscles that stood out. The war's rationing had prevented him from growing soft around the middle, and he was lean and hard. Gripping the muscles of his forearms as he leaned down to run his tongue around her breast, Sam gave a small gasp. She began to shiver as their skin came into contact, and Foyle felt his blood warm like a flame.

And it was, when Foyle let his touch find the core of her, that he did precisely what he had said would not happen in this endeavour: he lost himself to her completely and utterly, finding with her something he had never known. They ascended to the heights of pleasure quite safely, and Sam seemed to glow with a tremendous sense of pride that she too had some sort of hold on him. Foyle knew, that now, he was not the same man as before and the flitting thought of I can do anything with her beside me in life skipped across his mind as he fell into a contented sleep.