A note of love from MyMadness: Another chapter, from what's left of my brain. We are up nights here. Dealing with a new sense of normal. And sometimes Sam and Foyle sneak up on me and whisper to me in my waking dreams that things really could stand to move along.

And I watch what dancesabove put up on YouTube of our pair... And my daughter manages a few bars just, just so and straight out of New Orleans on her trumpet - and I sling this down.

I thank dancesabove for her eye - for the apt edits. But I claim all the errors, as I went back over what she had fixed and poked it with a big stick. I thank Selmak for her ears.

Thank you all for reading and for all the lovely reviews. You make my sleepy heart sing.

Foyle cleared his throat nervously as they walked into the study. "Mrs. Stewart. Reverend Stewart. Sam has agreed to marry me. And... we'd like your blessing."

Her father sat blinking behind his glasses, as if this had not been a very likely outcome of this weekend.

"Oh, lovely. Congratulations," Mrs. Stewart said, sounding genuinely pleased. Christopher was not surprised by her words. He had realized that Sam's mother had never been against the match, she had just wanted them to be very, very sure. Being a nervous suitor, however, he was still relieved to see Sam's mother moving toward them, all smiles.

Emily Stewart kissed them both on the cheek, and words now seemed more than the woman could manage.

"And when do you hope to be married?" Reverend Stewart asked, once he had recovered enough to kiss his daughter.

"As soon as possible," Sam said without hesitation.

Oh, deftly managed, dear, Christopher said silently to Sam. He closed his eyes and felt his face vaguely redden. Try not to make it sound as if we are likely to ravish each other in the next few minutes?

"Would you like this betrothal to be blessed, Samantha? Christopher?" the vicar asked with a gentle look.

He means formally blessed, Foyle thought, feeling flatfooted. He should have known that, if he was marrying the daughter of a vicar, asking for a blessing was going to be more involved than toasts and well wishes.

Samantha hooked her fingers into the lapel of Christopher's coat and pulled him toward her so she could whisper to him. Mrs. Stewart took a few steps off to the side to give them some semblance of privacy, while Reverend Stewart moved to scan his wall of books.

"Do you mind if he reads from one of the old services?" Sam said. "There's one for betrothals. It used to be a whole ceremony... and..."

Foyle's head nearly at her shoulder now, he whispered, "No. I don't mind. If... erm, it's what you want?"

"Mmm hmm," she agreed into his suit coat.

The Reverend Stewart ran his finger over the most ancient books in his collection before he found the one he needed.

"This part of the service all sounds so lovely in Greek," the reverend said. "But shall we do this in English?" This was, apparently, Iain Stewart's attempt at humor. And Foyle was in such a good mood, he found himself enjoying the joke.

The good vicar's daughter that she was, Sam arranged herself appropriately. Head bent as if in prayer, she stood before her father and she reached for Foyle's hand.

Foyle's breath was short with emotion as he fell in close beside her. And Sam sensed the bit of unease in him. She squeezed his hand and leaned just that inch toward him to brush at his arm with hers. He could not help but grin over Sam being Sam, despite the seriousness of the occasion.

Christopher sensed that the Reverend Stewart was about to begin, so he tried to school his smile and fight the urge he had to squeeze Sam's hand yet tighter.

Foyle needn't have worried. "Your joy does my heart good to see," the elder man whispered.

And then with a smile of his own, and a full and practiced voice, he began. "For the servants of God, Samantha and Christopher, who now pledge themselves to one another, and for their salvation; let us pray."

As the words came, Foyle found he had no problem holding onto every one, just as he so easily held Sam's hand.

Had it been just a week since the Christmas service had left him so bereft?

"That there may be children for the continuation of their heritage, granting unto them all their prayers unto salvation; let us pray to the Lord," the vicar continued.

"That He send down upon them love perfect, and give them His protection; that He keep them in oneness of mind, and in steadfastness of Faith; let us pray to the Lord.

"That He may bless them in harmony and perfect trust; let us pray to the Lord.

"O Lord our God, bless this Betrothal, uniting Your servants, keeping them in peace and accord.

"For to You are due all Glory, honor, and worship, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and to the ages of ages."

"Amen," Christopher and Samantha intoned together. Foyle felt himself rejoin the room as if from some place far off.

"Amen." He heard Mrs. Stewart echo. Her voice was brimming and bright, and, Foyle imagined, relieved.

"It is quite lovely in English as well," Christopher managed softly to his prospective father-in-law.

…

The couples bid each other goodnight. Mrs. Stewart's only warning to the newly betrothed pair was not to stay up too late; then she and her husband took to the stairs.

Sam and Christopher were alone again. And by some unspoken understanding they walked slowly, hands joined, to the front room and the light of the fire.

"Your mother's a marvel, you know that," Foyle announced wryly, as they stood by the mantel. "Incredibly perceptive."

"What did she do?"

"Had me come out here," he answered, simply.

"That?"

"Yes. Just that."

"Whatever you do," Sam said with a quirk to her expression, "don't tell her how completely brilliant and perceptive she is. It will only make her more difficult."

He hummed his agreement. And then feeling wicked, he leaned forward, took her by the waist, and hummed again, so he might tickle at her neck.

She pulled him tighter, indecently tighter, and felt the rush of delight the world had designed in her.

In another moment, though, as she let her mind return to sing its warning, it all turned overwhelming. A visceral shiver ran through her, and she let up half a cry.

As if with effort, she put her hands to his chest to enforce a slight distance. "I had not thought it possible," she told him.

"What's that?"

"'Goodnight' just got even more difficult," she said.

"But ever more necessary."

"You'll dance with me, though," she told him more than asked. It had not escaped his notice that she hadn't let go of him.

"Eventually," he said. "Eventually, we'll dance."

She turned away from him abruptly and switched the wireless back on. She looked back at him with a sort of self-satisfied smile when she heard that there was music still at this hour. It was a slow swing standard. Romantic. Overly sentimental. And definitely waltz-able.

He let her fold herself back into his arms as he gave her a warning look.

"One dance," he tried to chide.

"Absolutely. Just..." Suddenly she couldn't even think as his warm kiss hit that spot behind her ear. His hand at her back was barely moving, but demanding ever so much of her attention as they danced in their slow circle... It was his breathing, she found, that she focused on as they moved together. The sound of it was slow. Steady and vital. But the feel of it, radiating through him to her? That was deep and full of wanting.

Oh, good God, she thought. Message received. Roger. Wilco. Me too.

"I wondered," she began, "why you never danced with me."

"It isn't as if there were that many opportunities," he tried to deflect at a whisper.

"Still..."

She wanted his honesty. He could hear that in her single, small, tremulous word. His hand left her shoulder and traced at her throat as he decided to tell her how it really was. "No, you're right. I didn't dare dance with you."

"Why, Christopher?" she asked as she leaned away to meet his eye.

"I knew that if I held you like this... touched you like this..." he said, as they slid closer together. "I knew I might not let go until morning." A single finger traced further down past the hollow of her throat then, and his meaning was completely and evocatively clear.

He couldn't place her look. It seemed something like mild shock at his touch and at the suggestive words.

"I don't mean that I'm going to sneak you into my room tonight, Sam. I'm not threatening anything untoward," he tried to assure her.

But she wasn't looking to have any fears soothed. She kissed him, full and then hard. She let go of the worry that she would embarrass herself with her meager experience at such things, and let her tongue demand his. She let her fingers revel in the curls at his neck.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," she told him even as a gasp escaped her. "I wouldn't mind if you meant something very untoward."

Her words were not spoken as a tease, he knew. They were simply a resolute woman's very level assurance. And that made forgotten things grow tight inside him.

He cleared his throat. "For my sake, there are things it would be better if you only thought rather than said out loud. For now."

There was a kiss to her forehead then, to mark his need for a change to their activities.

"Oh, this is impossible," she near-growled into his shirt as she registered her own frustration.

"Yes," he agreed, his feelings obvious in that one syllable. "Completely impossible. And I am going to lock you in your room now. You on one side of the door. Me on the other."

It wasn't helping that she recognized the want in him. She only groaned and tightened her fingers' hold in his shirt.

Any vague sort of sexual feelings her body had treated her to in the past had suddenly become extremely specific. And very intense.

She was making no move to end their embrace, and it was left to him. His sudden hands at her shoulders spun her and pointed her at the stairs. "Not another word. Please God, not another sound." She had no idea how each little noise of frustration was working through him, provoking him.

They walked up the stairs like that, his hands at her shoulders, he trying his best to pretend he was just an automaton delivering a package.

And he told himself that her parents would be listening at their bedroom door for their daughter's safe delivery to her room. That helped.

Finally, they stood at the doorway to her childhood room.

"I love you," he told her as he held her close, but kept her facing away from him. "You'll never know how much. Or for how long."

"I love you, too. I thank God, you know. For you."

"Me too. Goodnight," he whispered.

She half-turned and took an awkward kiss from him.

"Goodnight," she told him as she reached to touch his cheek.

And his firm hands allowed no betrayal as they moved her across the threshold.

"Until tomorrow," he told her.

A/N: The "betrothal service" still exists and is still used in the Orthodox church. Not sure about any others.

I have (or perhaps I can blame the Rev Stewart) shortened and simplified it for use here. I mean no offense. There was one prayer I remember dear Fr. Jim nearly gushing about during our wedding planning. "This sounds so lovely in Greek!" And so we let him do it that way. I HAD to include the very Fr. Jim-like quote here.