A/N: I've added Caroline to Foyle's list of lovers, during his pillow talk with Barbara, although we hadn't known of her back in 2006 when I was writing this, had we?

As soon as I figure out how to do it, I will post an M-rated version of this scene, for those who like that sort of thing. ;oD

In the bedroom with her he found it was rather the way he remembered his wedding night, except that, now, he was less nervous. Though trembling, she allowed him to begin to undress her, but as he sensed her increasing discomfort he stopped, kissed her, and invited her into his bed. They finished undressing with their backs to each other.

Lying on his side under the covers, he folded an arm below his head and held her fingers to his lips,

"Nothing will happen that you haven't consented to; nothing I would do, nothing I would care to do, without your agreement…" He touched her cheek, gently turning her face towards him,

"…and that works both ways, you know?"

That made her smile a little. He could hardly believe how shy she was with him, thinking back to her aggressive attitude when they'd first met. More than anything he meant to earn her trust now.

He proceeded cautiously, slowly, seeking and ensuring he had her approval, waiting for her eyes to meet his, listening to the tenor of her sighs. The process was deliciously tantalizing, discovering this unfamiliar, lovely body.

But when his sensitive fingers felt what he knew must be scar tissue across her back, he remembered the rhyme she'd recited in the woods last April - 'the woman, the dog and the chestnut tree, the more you beat them...' He checked himself from showing a reaction; it was not the time to acknowledge the full extent of the abuse she had suffered.

This would be just for the two of them.

After their love-making he lay stupefied until he felt the soft touch of her nose against his, opened his eyes to see her smiling and weeping at once, like rain on a bright spring day. He kissed her, let his fingers play through her hair, and breathed,

"Thank-you…"

Then realised she had spoken the same word at the same moment, and they smiled at each other.

Some time later Foyle awoke to the blissful sensation of a warm, soft body spooning against him, his arms around silky flesh and his feet entangled with hers. He listened to her quiet breathing, kissed her shoulder, delicately traced the contour of her cheek with his fingers.

When she woke they made love again, and then lay together talking.

"Christopher, how many lovers have you had?"

"Rather personal question…" He paused, grinned, and then answered,

"Let me see: there was Caroline, we met when I was injured in the last war. There was Rosalind, and… then there was… you. That makes, er, three, if I haven't miscounted."

"Only three!" She watched his face as she took this in.

"There was a girl, a young lady… before I volunteered in the First War. I… asked her to marry me. She accepted; her father refused permission. We were never lovers."

"But you loved her."

"I did, yes."

"Was that... the reason you volunteered?"

"Mmmight have had something to do with it."

"Three. But – not even in France? You were a soldier."

"Well..., there was a brief… liaison… Actually, she was Polish…"

"That makes four."

"Including you."

"And no one since Rosalind…?"

"No."

"Then, why m–?"

He cut off her question,

"No-no: your turn; how many? Get out the list."

"A gentleman shouldn't ask a lady such a question."

He tilted his head and waited.

"Well, my husband, of course, though we weren't exactly married the first time… and, quite soon after he died, there was this friend of his, a man from his office, I'm afraid; he kept coming round to the house and, with the state I was in, one thing led to another; I think he rather took advantage of it, actually. I realised it was a mistake straight away; I needed time alone, time to work out who I was – or who I could be… So, I sold the house, we moved away... Since then… no one."

"Not that men haven't tried…"

"Well, yes, but, I thought I was happy on my own, with my son. I was happy. I saw him through school, and then he joined up."

Barbara closed her eyes tight for a moment, then, putting that pain aside, she heaved a sigh,

"I suppose I blamed men for everything after that – the war, killing, brutality, violence – I blamed every man that looked at me."

"Mmm, I still bear the marks…" He said, rubbing his cheek as if it had been slapped; then he gave her a warm smile.

"Why me, Christopher?"

"N-no, that's… not the right question."

He repositioned the pillow against the headboard and looked into her eyes,

"'Why… us?' Perhaps… I fell instantly in love with you, without knowing it. I do know I was very deeply intrigued. Before I could act on my feelings, you were gone; seemed to be nothing I could do about it. Even a policeman as lofty as myself can't go asking for classified information on the movements of war workers."

She closed her eyes in self-reproach and he caressed the blonde locks curling over her ear.

"I thought about you, wondered where you were, but… it seemed a hopeless case. Had no reason to believe you thought of me… Then you turned up on my doorstep."

He leaned over to kiss her, then settled onto his back, pulling her nearer.

"Now, you give the other half of the answer."

She looked thoughtful for a few moments.

"Well, I wasn't certain I'd fallen in love with you, but I knew I wanted to see you again – you'd had a strong effect on me. You somehow had made me see things clearly for the first time in a long time – since Dunkirk. I felt more myself… even after I'd been moved on; I was more at peace. You were constantly in my thoughts, but I couldn't get back –. Then I got notice of my leave and… all I could think of was coming here, coming to find you. Crazy, hmm? I mean, you might have been out of town; you might have had a house full of visitors, but–."

She appealed to him for understanding.

"But I hadn't."

He smiled,

"Have we answered the question?"

Moving closer, she stretched an arm across his middle and closed her eyes happily,

"Yes, I think we have…"

Her eyes flew open with a sudden thought,

"Visitors! – good god, what time is it?"

He twisted round to look at the clock on the bedside table.

"It's – it's half-past four. Oh dear."

She sat bolt upright, apparently forgetting she was naked,

"I've got to go–! You've got to order a cab!"

She threw off the covers, leapt out of the bed and began pulling on whatever undergarments came to hand. Foyle watched, transfixed and highly entertained by the spectacle. She glanced over her shoulder at him,

"Well, shift, man! What would your son think of you?"

He reluctantly, but quickly, started to dress,

"Right, right… Actually, I think he'd be quite impressed…" he began chuckling to himself.

"Well– what would he think of me? This is hardly a fitting introduction to–." She stopped herself, while continuing to pull a silk, rose-pink slip over her peach utility brassiere, corset and knickers.

"…To whom?" He closed his trouser buttons over his shirt-tails, pulled up his braces and came round the foot of the bed to her side.

"…To his father's sweetheart?"

Taking her in his arms, he straightened the ribbon shoulder strap for her, and she shyly bowed her head, smiling. He tilted her chin up,

"…To his father's… fiancée?"

Still smiling, she said,

"I don't recall being asked any such question, Detective Chief Superintendent."

Frowning, he muttered absently,

"No? Sure I have it in my case notes."

"Well, go and look it up in your case notes while I finish dressing; and please, order a cab!"

Fifteen minutes later she joined him in the sitting room.

"I'm afraid the taxi's going to be thirty minutes. But don't worry – they'll send a car here before picking up anyone at the train station."

"You look very..." He added as she brought him his tie and draped it around his neck.

"And you look…" she kissed him happily, "…like the cat that ate the cream…"

Foyle glanced away, smiling but embarrassed,

"Well… yeah."

Still looking away, he asked,

"Em, Barbara, wondered…would it be, er…" he scratched his head worriedly, "…out of line for me to offer to pay for the cab and hotel…?"

She arched an eyebrow at him with a wry smile,

"'Out of line…?' You mean, would I be offended…?"

"Well, just that… might look as though… I mean, em… Of course, it's not; I mean: you're not…"

She answered with an amused grin,

"…Not your 'kept woman' – your 'fancy woman,' as Joan would say?"

Foyle's expression changed to an uncomfortable frown and she sobered instantly,

"Thank-you for offering, Christopher, but no – I can manage quite well. I do appreciate the chivalrous gesture…"

She waited til he smiled again, kissed him, slipped the tie under his collar, made the knot and began to tighten it. Then changed her mind and loosened it again. She said with a contented sigh,

"You know, I think I prefer your informal look…"

Drawing the tie over his head she playfully discarded it. Foyle watched her face with amused curiosity.

"In fact, if you feel at all the way I do just now… then you have no business looking so calm and collected, so unruffled…" She pushed the unbuttoned waistcoat from his shoulders and tossed it behind him, and his smile widened. With another kiss as a pretext for putting her arms around him, she slipped her hands under his braces and pulled them down to hang over his trousers.

"Don't you feel the least bit… reckless?"

"Is that the way you feel?" he surprised himself by lifting her off her feet and turning in a full circle. When he set her down she swayed into him, laughing; to keep his balance he took a step back, his leg knocked against the side table and the small lamp fell to the carpet. They both ignored it.

She smiled blissfully, her brow touching his,

"Hmm… I feel… exhilarated!" She laughed and pulled up his shirt-tails, then ran her hands over his chest and around his back under the shirt.

"Barbara, …the cab is on its way…!"

He almost managed a reproving look, and brought his arm up to show her his watch. She looked at it dutifully, but then unfastened the strap and let the watch drop onto the nearby chair. Foyle eyed her, still trying to look disapproving but not quite achieving it, and she slipped the cuff-link out of his shirt cuff. Just as he raised his other arm with an encouraging smile and presented the cuff to her, they heard the sound of a motor pull up in front of the house.

She made an unhappy, regretful face and met his eyes; Foyle looked at her anxiously, and then himself removed the other cuff-link and threw it over his shoulder.

She gave a little laugh,

"Then you do feel just a little reckless…?"

He gazed into her eyes and heaved a sigh,

"Barbara… darling, I feel… in a state of grace – received a blessing I'm quite undeserving of…"

He kissed her softly and when he drew back saw she was moved.

"Thought… I'd never –. I love you, Barbara, and, if you'll have me, I'd… W-will you marry me?"

She brushed a tear from her cheek, sniffed and smiled,

"What a question to ask when there's a cab waiting at the door!"

"I know – sorry – just didn't want –."

"'Seize the day'…?"

"Absolutely!"

They heard the door of the cab open and shut.

Foyle sat her in the chair and got down on one knee before her, holding her hand and looking straight into her eyes,

"Will you marry me, Barbara?"

Her eyes never left his as she took in a ragged breath and answered,

"Yes, Christopher, I will marry you."

As the cabbie knocked on the door, Foyle kissed her hand, drew her head towards him to kiss her lips tenderly, and then smiled, blinking back tears.

"Thank-you…"

He cleared his throat,

"I'll, er, just get that."

At the door he gave her travel case to the cabbie and asked him to wait just a few moments. The driver eyed him up and down, nodded and went back to his car.

Barbara stood uncertainly in the middle of the room; Foyle took her in his arms again,

"I'm sorry – this isn't very romantic, is it?"

She smiled but gave him an appraising look,

"Perhaps not romantic, but I'm beginning to suspect rather a lot of hidden, smouldering passion…"

"Hidden? You mean, you don't know? Can I let you leave me, then –!"

He smiled rather mischievously.

"I-I haven't any doubts, Chris–."

Before she could finish he had swiftly moved her onto the sofa and laid her back gently, murmuring,

"'Had we but world enough and time…'"

She laughed and then bit her lip,

"Well, that's hardly appropriate – I'm not in the least bit coy or reluctant – but the taxi…!"

She pushed him back onto his knees on the floor and got up, standing over him,

"I hope you haven't forgotten that Andrew will be here soon…"

"No. Curse the boy for thinking of his lonely father…"

He growled, smiling, but she reacted with mock outrage and picked up a cushion from the sofa, making as if to strike him with it.

He put up his hands in defense,

"I take it back!"

He tilted his head and looked up at her admiringly.

"Would you have hit Neame with that tree branch?"

"Oh, well, I might have done, if it seemed necessary."

Climbing to his feet, he took the cushion from her hand and tossed it away.

"I see…"

The corners of his mouth turned down and he nodded his head slowly, impressed.

"Well, don't let me, er…"

He had meant to make a joke to ease the moment of parting, but found he couldn't do it. Instead, he grew almost distressed,

"…We'll see each other tomorrow, darling…?"

She read the emotion in his eyes and welled up,

"Of course we will –. Come and help me with my coat…"

Foyle stood rooted, surprised at his sudden sense of desperation, breathing hard.

Barbara took up another cushion and threatened him with it, arching an eyebrow at him.

He managed a crooked grin and they went to the hall to fetch her coat.

One last, lingering kiss, a few urgent whispered promises, and she was gone. He watched her in the cab until it was out of sight, and shut the door.

Sitting in his chair by the hearth, composed now and filled with happy expectation, he finished his glass of whisky, musing,

"No – logic had had nothing to do with it… Something rather more important than that."

And then there was the sound of another motor pulling up in front of the house, footfalls on the steps, and the door rattled open.

"Dad? I'm home!" The heavy clump of a bag being dropped; Foyle rose and met his smartly-uniformed son in the entry.

"Andrew! How was your journey?"

They embraced and the boy gave his father an extra squeeze,

"Fine. Happy Christmas! – Or rather, Happy Boxing Day, I suppose."

They wandered into the sitting room and Foyle stood with his hands deep in his pockets, giving the appearance of outward calm.

"…The train was full of chaps trying to get home… some boisterous, some pretty quiet… Is that a new aftershave? A bit flowery, isn't it? Christ – look at this! Who gave you 'The Glenlivet'?"

Andrew examined a few of the small parcels, then paused,

"Er… Dad? What on earth is your necktie doing on the Christmas tree?"

Foyle looked puzzled and stared at the tree where his tie had apparently landed, looked up at his son with feigned innocence, raised his eyebrows, and then broke into a broad smile.

Andrew tilted his head quizzically,

"Dad…?"

"Come and sit down, son. Got some news. D'you want a drink?"

The End.