A/N: Thank you to those who have followed this slightly rambling story. I've had such fun writing it, and though at first I couldn't quite make up my mind if Brookie would be our hero, Sam and Foyle have won out again. Perhaps Brookie is a hero, however, in his own way? As always, feedback is appreciated and I thank you for sticking with me so far.

Chapter 8

At Steep Lane, Sam turned off the motor in front of Foyle's house. Her stomach gave an unconscious rumble and Foyle smiled at her.

"We'll have something to eat first, then the celebratory drink, all right?"

"Tickety-boo! What have you got?"

"Er…I'm sure we can find something in the larder."

Foyle unlocked his door and stood aside to let her in. He looked around the quiet, blacked out street. Filling his lungs with the night air, he closed the door, wondering if he wasn't about to get himself in above his head, but not entirely sure he minded if he did. He was a free man.

Sam had already divested herself of coat and hat, and to Foyle's pleasure, unbuttoned her jacket and loosened her stiff tie. She looked like a present, half unwrapped, and Foyle had to give himself a shake.

"Right. Larder."

She followed him into the kitchen. "I feel as if I haven't eaten properly in years. The last time I felt full was when we went up to that farm in springtime, do you remember? They had apple crumble and custard."

Foyle popped his head out from the larder, "Er, well, no custard in here. Will eggs and toast do? I still have some butter."

"Perfect." She grinned at him.

"It must be horrible working on a farm," she began, pulling out a frying pan, settling herself comfortably into his kitchen.

"Oh, really?"

"Well, imagine being surrounded by all that food and not being able to eat it whenever you like."

Foyle raised an amused eyebrow.

"All those cows and pigs, and lambs, and the chickens and turkeys…fresh onions, and carrots…"

"Sam!"

"Sorry! I know I should be grateful the rationing isn't any worse, but I can't help but dream of food. It's just I'm always so hungry!"

Foyle laughed, feeling some stress slip away and his mood lighten. He put the eggs down carefully and came towards her, gathering her into his arms.

"Samantha Stewart, you are the most delightful, wonderful, clever and vibrant young lady I think I've ever met."

She blushed a becoming pink and Foyle kissed her with a smile playing about his lips.

"After such a day, having you here, in my kitchen, dreaming of food, well, I couldn't have asked for anything better."

"Really? I think it would be better if we actually had some steak…"

Foyle crushed her lips, a laugh growing from deep inside him. He felt slightly manic and euphoric, but couldn't begin to understand why. He laughed hard now, his shoulders shaking and Sam pulled him close in an embrace. She held him until it stopped and when she pulled away saw his eyes were bright.

"It's all been a bit much, hasn't it?" she asked softly.

Foyle gave a half smile and nodded. What had begun as a laugh had ended in tears, and he knew now that walking away from his job was harder than he thought it would be. The tension had built to a breaking point and mixed with everything else he was feeling — everything he was experiencing — that had to do with the woman in front of him. Perhaps he was mad, he thought.

"Not to walk in there tomorrow…for you to be out there driving another detective, getting into all kinds of trouble —"

She made a face at him.

"To know that after all these years, this is truly…it." Foyle paused, heaving a sigh and twitching his lips. "I'll miss it, Sam."

She pulled him to her, cradling his head in her hands, fingers clutching hold of the small curls at the base of his neck. Foyle let her comfort him, feeling immeasurably grateful for her presence; her loyalty…her love.

The egg and toast dinner was over quickly, and in spite of her own worries about what would happen now that Foyle was gone from the police force, Sam didn't even think to mention it. She had felt, more than anything, the pain, loss, and disappointment of the man across the table from her.

Sam stood, collecting their plates and going to the sink. She felt so comfortable here in this house, with this man.

She turned to look at him from the sink as it filled, giving a "well aren't you going to help?" look. He was chewing the inside of his lip, thinking, but he stood and came up behind her.

"Can I help?"

Sam froze, a pleasant feeling running down her spine. She nestled back into his chest.
"You can actually…you —" she broke off with a gasp. "Oh!"

His lips were at her neck, hands slipping around her middle. She closed her eyes, one hand trailing in the warm, soapy water in the sink below. The combination of the warm water on her tingling fingertips and the cool sensation of his breath against her neck sent heavenly shivers through her.

Foyle pressed himself against her, pulling her closer. "My darling," he murmured into her shoulder.

His left hand slid slowly down, pressing gently. Sam gave another gasp and felt the shivering engulf her.

"I've got you," he murmured reassuringly, feeling her shivers increase.

She gave a whimper and leaned forwards, back arching involuntarily. His right hand was now at her breast, unbuttoning the khaki shirt slowly, slipping his hand inside. It was warm and as his fingers brushed against her taught nipple, she turned her head, trying to get at him, wanting his mouth; to feel his lips and capture his tongue.

In doing so, she dropped the plate she had been holding into the water, splashing water all over her front.

Foyle stopped, smiling at her. He put both hands on her arms, giving them a light squeeze.

"I apologise, I'm not being very…um, helpful. I was enjoying my after dinner treat."

She turned to gape at him, lips parted in delight.

He smirked, grabbing the tea towel. "You've got water all down your front, here, let me help."

He began dabbing at the soaked shirt, hand resting momentarily on a breast. He caught her eye, making sure he hadn't just pushed too many boundaries.

Sam grinned at him, feeling that it was absurd to see the questions in his eyes. If only he knew how much she wanted him to continue and never stop.

Somehow, they managed to finish the washing up.

"Let's have that drink, shall we?" Foyle asked, moving into the lounge. He closed the door and checked the blackout was in place properly. Switching on the wireless so that it burbled softly in the background, he picked up two glasses. Handing her a small glass of whiskey, he held up his.

"To us."

Sam drank and then said, "I thought we were celebrating your resignation?"

"Well, yes. That too."

Foyle sat comfortably next to her on the sofa, loosening his tie and pulling it off smoothly.

He said with sudden happy realisation, "I'm not your boss any more, Sam!"

She turned to look at him in surprise.

"You know what this means?"

Still confused, Sam replied, "I don't have to call you 'sir'?"

Grinning, "It means, Sam, I don't feel nearly so self conscious about kissing you. You no longer work for me."

"Oh." She smiled, "Well, in that case…"

She could taste the whiskey on his tongue and she decided she liked it. Much nicer than the taste of cigarettes.

Suddenly Sam said quietly, "I can't bear the thought of not seeing you every morning."

Foyle took her hand.

"It's rather a rum deal, you know. You shoving off." Sam paused, "I know it wasn't easy, and I don't mean to make it harder by saying all this. It's just…"

She put her head on his shoulder, staring at the glass in her hand. "I'll miss you; miss working with you. I don't really know what I'll do now. I don't want to lose you."

Foyle hummed in acknowledgement, biting his lip.

"It's been a wonderful few years; I know I shouldn't say that, it being the War and such, but it brought you into my life."

"Finding you…Sam, is something I will always be grateful for. The one and only thing we can thank Jerry for," Foyle said softly, tracing the outline of her hand.

"I don't know how and I don't know why, but I've always known." She shot him a smile, "It wasn't proper, and I hardly knew you, but somewhere deep down, I was drawn to you from our first days together."

"A moth to a flame?" Foyle teased in a soft whisper.

"It's true," Sam said firmly.

He placed his lips against her temple and whispered. "Me too."

Taking the glass out of her hand, setting it on the small table with his own, he faced her. Finding her eyes, he said in a low voice,

"Sam, I love you. I think I always have; I just didn't know a way forward — propriety is rather a problem with these sorts of things, and er, well, I never believed you would feel even remotely the same. I didn't dare think it."

"I love you too, Christopher Foyle." She kissed him softly.

He smiled, eyes becoming misty. "I don't know how I'm so lucky."

"I'm lucky too, you know. To love someone I completely trust, understand, and believe in, and to be loved in return — this is a first for me."

"I never dreamed I would feel this way again." Foyle paused, kissing her hand that he held tightly. "I am so glad."

She smiled at him. "As am I."

Sam paused, gazing at the man next to her, saying suddenly, "I can't bear it without you, Christopher; I won't drive another detective around, and I won't go back to the MTC. I'll take in laundry if I have to, but I can't go back."

Foyle twitched his lips, "Well, do you know, Sam, I don't think I can bear it without you either."

Sam continued, looking distractedly over his shoulder, "I could be your cook! Or a housekeeper? Or maybe your personal secretary? Or —"

With a throaty chuckle, Foyle looked at her — "My housekeeper? Really Sam!"

His eyes softened, "My darling Sam, don't you know how much I love you?"

He took both her hands, "Will you marry me, Samantha Stewart? Would you mind terribly, being an old policeman's wife?"

Sam's mouth dropped in surprise, as if it had never occurred to her that such a possibility was the most plausible role. Her face broke into a broad smile.

"Really?"

"Well, um, yes." Foyle tried not to look worried.

"Of course! Yes, yes." She flung herself into his arms, laughing in delight.

Foyle smiled, burying his face into her shoulder. "Splendid," he croaked, voice stuck somewhere inside him. "Can't go anywhere without you, you know."