A/N: Another M-rated chapter, just so you know.

By the time the Rover slips onto the motorway, I am seriously hungry; last night's dinner is the faintest of memories, and I begin to think about where we might stop for something to eat. Ruth must be as hungry as I, for she is quick to point out a sign advertising a Little Chef at the next lot of motorway services. "Oh, look! I haven't been to one of those since I was a little girl," she exclaims excitedly; I give her a sideways glance to convey my distaste at this idea, wrinkling my nose to emphasise the point. Ruth, her feet curled under her, still wearing last night's red dress, is as radiant as her diamond pendant, sparkling even in the dull grey light; I'd even go so far as to say she is glowing, and I'd like to think that last night had something to do with it. She has settled herself as close to me as possible; for a moment I wish that Father had chosen to install a front bench seat in the Rover instead, but Ruth's shoulder still manages to brush mine as she leans towards me, and one hand rests lightly on my left leg in a most distracting manner. "My love, I have never yet eaten at a Little Chef, and I have no intention of starting now," I inform her. "Do you think you can hold out for another half hour? I have a much better idea, but it's a surprise." Ruth looks at me, amused, and says, "You do know that you're an impossible snob, sweetheart, don't you?" before contentedly resting her head on my shoulder. I drop down a gear and gun the engine, preparatory to pulling into the fast lane; the Rover's straight six responds smoothly, and we are soon flying down the road at seventy miles per hour, leaving the Little Chef far in the distance.

"I would hope that I'm not a snob," I reply, after considering Ruth's words for a few minutes, "but if not wanting to eat at some greasy spoon roadside caff makes me one, then I'm guilty as charged." From the shaking emanating from Ruth's body where it touches mine, I realise that she is laughing silently. "Oh, you're a snob, all right, the biggest snob I know, in fact, but you do have some rather brilliant redeeming qualities," and her hand begins to slide slowly towards my inner thigh. My heart begins to thump harder, but I arrest the errant hand's progress with a mildly reproving sound. "Ruth, please. We're on the motorway and I need to concentrate on driving." She sits back in her seat, hands clutched together, staring straight ahead, but after a moment she replies, "Sorry, I don't know what came over me. I expect I'm still a bit stunned, after what you did to me last night." I reach over to bring her hand to my lips, ceremoniously kissing and replacing it in her lap with an affectionate little pat. "I feel the same way, my love. Like the world is suddenly a brighter place, even on a cold, grey November day." She smiles at me, her eyes pale in the watery light of late autumn. "Exactly. You have such a lovely way of putting it." Just then, I spot the exit signs for the junction I have been looking for looming up ahead, and I begin to work my way towards the slip lane that will take us off the motorway and onto the A303.

Once we are off the motorway, I follow the signs towards Basingstoke, until the village I have been looking for appears around a bend in the road, and I pull up in front of a handsome, red brick building with a sign proclaiming it to be the Wheatsheaf Inn. Ruth frowns as she gets out of the car, pulling her black knee-high boots on as she does so, and I wait for her quicksilver mind to make the connection. Offering her my arm, I escort her towards the main entrance, and then into the warmth of a long room with heavy exposed beams and shining horse brasses nailed along them. She pauses just long enough for me to help her out of her coat, then heads off on a tour of exploration as I ask for a table and the waiter ushers me into a comfortable window seat in the dining room, quiet at this hour between breakfast and lunch. "Looking for Jane, then?" the waiter, a pleasant young man, asks as he sets menus on the table. I smile back and say, "In a manner of speaking," placing an order for coffee (Ruth) and tea (me). Ruth has disappeared outside, without her coat, and when she comes back inside, her cheeks are rosy with cold and excitement; she has worked it out, from the way her eyes shine as she walks quickly towards me. I stand as she approaches, and over the last couple of steps she launches herself into my arms, laughing with delight. "Oh, Malcolm, this is where Jane Austen used to collect her post and send her letters; that's Popham Lane just out there, and Steventon village must only be a couple of miles away!" Smiling into her hair, I happily return her hug; Jane Austen is a particular favourite of Ruth's, and once I recollected this inn, just out of our way to Bournemouth, I hadn't been able to resist the pleasure of bringing Ruth here, knowing that Miss Austen is one of her favourite authors. Lifting her face to mine, she kisses me soundly, before taking her seat and perusing the menu. Unable to stop myself from blushing with pleasure at her public display of affection, I slide onto the bench next to her and signal the waiter to take our order. I decide on the full English breakfast (sans baked beans), and Ruth follows suit. "I hope you're hungry," I observe, "they're generous with their servings here."

Ruth gives me a direct look, and my blush deepens; I'm still not used to being with a woman who admits to her appetites so openly, and as her hand returns to my thigh, under the table, she answers in a low voice, her eyes on mine, "I'm starving, and I don't just mean for breakfast." For a moment, as the blood rushes out of my head and into somewhat lower regions, I seriously entertain the idea of taking a room upstairs, and indulging in an afternoon of lovemaking, but then I remember Aunt Emily's strained voice, asking me to pick up my mother as soon as possible, and sigh. "Believe me, there's nothing I would like better, but I…we…can't. I have to collect Mother, remember? She doesn't like being kept waiting," Ruth rolls her eyes in mock-frustration, and says in a petulant voice, "Well, neither do I." Before I can reply, our food arrives, plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, pork chipolatas, grilled tomato, sautéed mushrooms, and fried bread, and Ruth falls to with gusto. I eat more slowly, but soon enough our plates are empty.

Pushing her plate away, Ruth pours herself another cup of coffee and settles herself against the high, cushioned back of the window seat, turning slightly to face me. "So, how do you want to do this?" she asks, and for a disconcerting moment I think she is returning to the attack; then I realise that she is referring to meeting my mother. I sit back comfortably too, and for the first time this morning, I give the question my full consideration, and thus find myself wondering just why Ruth is suddenly so keen, after months of studiously avoiding the subject and insisting on utter secrecy where our relationship is concerned. "There's something I don't quite understand, Ruth, "I begin, and she cuts in with, "Why now, do you mean, after so long?" I nod, and she pauses thoughtfully. "I think I'm just ready to, that's all," she offers, and then, "I stayed with Mum when I was at that cryptographers' course at Cheltenham, and I think she suspects something's going on. She always was good at reading me, and I want to come clean with her." While I digest this piece of information, she adds, "Besides, after last night, I think we'd better start telling people, don't you?" I look at her, uncertain of her meaning. She chuckles at my expression, and takes my hand, turning it over as she traces the lines of my palm; I close my fingers over hers. "When we were apart, I realised how much I missed you, missed being with you, missed your kindness and gentleness; I hadn't understood till then how much my heart had come to depend on yours. Then, I saw another side of you, last night, one I hadn't even known I was looking for, and it was like watching the final piece of the puzzle fall into place; you're everything I've ever wanted in a man, Malcolm, and I'd move in with you tomorrow, if you'd have me."

I can hardly describe my feelings, upon the conclusion of this little speech; joy surges through me, my heart swells until I think it will burst, my hands tremble with the need to hold her, and it is as if the sun has finally come out after the longest of winters. To be able to admit openly that we are together, to come and go from the Grid together as we please, and not worry about what anyone else thinks; to go home together every night, and wake up with her beside me each morning – this is what I have hoped for, longed for, prayed for. Ruth, finally mine, to have and to hold… and then, beneath all the bubbling, intoxicating excitement, I seem to hear Colin's cautionary voice:

But surely you know she fancies Harry like mad…the whole place knows…Ruth would be enough to do anyone's head in…she doesn't do anything that's not intentional…Schrodinger's cat, remember? It could be one or the other, dead or alive…

"Malcolm?" Ruth touches my cheek lightly; I look into those extraordinary eyes, clear and candid and sparkling with happiness, and all at once I feel as if I am teetering on the edge of a precipice. "Where on earth do you go?" she teases, and I blink, realising that I haven't actually responded out loud to her declaration. With Colin's voice still ringing in my ears, and all the evidence of my own eyes playing before my memory, a hundred different looks and glances passing between Ruth and Harry, his covert glances at her, her blushes in return, scene after scene jerking and juddering into focus like a badly spliced reel of film, my head is in a whirl of confusion and uncertainty. I desperately want to believe her, but at the same time there are so many unanswered questions: the Tessina's comings and goings, the odd bug I found in our room at Toad Hall, why Harry recently sent her back to GCHQ without explanation; and whatever Ruth was about to tell me last night, as I drifted off to sleep. I don't know what to think, or feel, or say, and so I fall back on the habit of a lifetime, and decide to defend the status quo, specifically my own.

"I'm sorry, my love," I begin slowly, "It's just that this is all rather sudden, and I need some time to think about it." I flinch as she withdraws her hand from mine and sits back, crossing her arms. "This is a complete reversal of everything you've said you wanted from the very beginning, so please, be reasonable." She stares at me: remarkable, really, how swiftly her eyes can change, according to her mood, I think distractedly; now they look as cold and grey as the North Sea. "But isn't this what you've wanted all along?" she says acerbically, and I nod slowly. "Of course it is, but I suppose I'm wondering why now. It's very flattering to think that one night of…of passion… could make you change your mind, but I'm afraid I'm a bit more cautious than that. I have to be, you see, because I have so much at stake here. And as for moving in with me, you appear to have overlooked the fact that my mother already lives with me, and you're only just about to meet her." Ruth thinks this over, and then nods. "I suppose I've been thinking about this for a while – since the night you stalked out, really. I couldn't believe you'd done that, and after I got over the shock, I thought it was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen, like Heathcliff storming out on Catherine… more than anything else, that got through to me somehow, and I saw how much you loved me." Her eyes are steady on mine as she speaks, and in them, I read the truth of her words; the blood begins to sing in my ears at the look on her face as she waits for my reply.

It's my turn to sit back now, pondering the inscrutability of the feminine mind, especially one as brilliant, and complex, and delicately balanced, as Ruth's. Before I can formulate a response that does not involve picking her up, carrying her upstairs, and having my way with her until every last trace of doubt is obliterated in a rush of endorphin-fuelled ecstasy, my mobile phone trills, and I am jerked back to the here and now. It's Aunt Emily, asking how much longer I think I will be, and belatedly I glance at my watch: it's almost one o'clock, and she is expecting me at any minute. I apologise and explain that I got away later than I had intended, and assure her that I will be there as soon as possible. In the background, I think I hear the sound of something breaking, and Aunt Emily hastily rings off. Ruth is still watching me as I flip my phone shut and get up. "Sorry, but we'll have to continue this in the car. My aunt's sounding a bit desperate now." Ruth gathers her bag and coat as I pay for our meals, and once we are back on the road, she returns to her original subject. "So, what are we going to tell your mother?" I don't answer immediately, concentrating instead on overtaking a coachload of pensioners on an outing, perhaps to the New Forest; as I pull back into the middle lane, Ruth asks the question again. "Well, what would you feel most comfortable with?" I counter, and she looks at me, her eyes dancing unaccountably merrily as she says, "A legend, do you mean?" I shrug, my attention on the huge Sainsbury's lorry ahead, and she continues, "I could be a subject in need of witness protection, or a CIA liaison, except my American accent is crap…or perhaps a French agent…my French is good enough to pass as a native speaker…"

I chuckle, despite my misgivings. "Any of those would certainly fit in with what my mother thinks I do." Ruth turns towards me in her seat, curious. "Your mother doesn't know what you do?" I hesitate, embarrassed, but the truth will out when she meets Mother anyway, so I plunge ahead. "She knows I work for Five, but I may have given her the impression, over the years, that my job is rather more exciting than it is." Ruth's eyes widen as she takes this in, exclaiming, "Oh, Malcolm! She thinks you're a field officer? How could you?!" My face reddening, I say sheepishly, "She wouldn't understand what I really do, she calls my electronic engineering 'Malcolm's little tinkerings', she thinks MI5 is like something out of an Ian Fleming book, only without so many exotic foreign locales… and besides, I wanted her to be proud of me, of what I do…" Ruth shrugs philosophically. "We all want that, don't we? My mum thinks I save orphans in Africa, but I don't know if she would approve of my real work, sometimes. It's all right, Malcolm, your secret's safe with me, but we're still no closer to deciding what we're going to tell your mother about us."

With a rising sense of panic, I notice the exit signs for the Bournemouth junction are becoming more frequent; we are only about half an hour away now, and still nothing is resolved. For about the hundredth time this morning, I wonder if I have taken leave of my senses, in agreeing to this at all. Mother hates surprises, and from the sound of that last phone call, she is in no mood to be trifled with. Maybe it would be best if I just dropped Ruth off in the town, and let her make her own way back…chastising myself for such cowardly thoughts, I ask, "What if I just introduce you as my colleague, and friend, and leave it at that for now?" Ruth considers this for a moment, and then nods. "Yes, perhaps simple is best. Let her get used to the idea, that sort of thing?" Grateful for her understanding, I reach over to take Ruth's hand, and she squeezes back affectionately. "As for what we were talking about earlier, please believe me when I say that there's nothing I would like more than to declare my love for you to all and sundry, but I need time. You can't just expect me to turn on a sixpence like that, because you've suddenly decided you're ready. And there are some serious considerations to think about; workplace romances tend to be fraught with all sorts of difficulties." Not least the fact that one's boss harbours feelings towards one's lover, and who knows how she feels about him, I think, but do not say. Ruth, to my surprise, concurs. "I know this must seem like a rather sudden change of heart on my part, but that's just what it is, a change of heart."

And then we say no more on the subject, for we are entering Bournemouth, and I need to focus on the traffic as I pick my way through the busy streets to Aunt Emily's neat Victorian villa in Boscombe, just back from the beach. The sun has come out, and Ruth catches her breath in delight as the sea comes into view. "Would it be all right if you let me out here? I'd love to take a walk along the beach and let the sea air blow the cobwebs away." I understand the attraction; I, too, love the seaside, but I feel that it would be best to get the meeting with Mother out of the way first. "We might have time, later, but for now, I really think it would be best if we went straight to Aunt Emily's, and got it over with." Her expression is one of disappointment, as the car turns up a side street, away from the beach, but her voice holds amusement as she says, "Anyone would think you didn't want to see your dear old Mum, after she's been away for months. She can't be that bad, Malcolm, surely." Oh, Ruth, you know not of what you speak… I pull into Aunt Emily's driveway, just then, saying, "You're about to find out for yourself. Don't attempt to kiss her on the cheek, and don't offer her your hand unless she offers hers first. She's a stickler for observing the social proprieties."

Ruth grins at me, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she zips up her boots and freshens her lipstick, before pulling her hair back into a sleek ponytail. "I suppose that extends to everyone being correctly attired at all times…how do I look?" she tugs at her red wool dress, smoothing it over her breasts, and straightens the diamond pendant so it shines just below the hollow of her throat. "Erm, yes, I should say so; Mother does notice how people dress, but you look perfect, as always," I reassure her, getting out of the car and hastening around to her side, I assist Ruth out of the car, into her coat, and up the front path, wondering at her Mona Lisa smile and air of calm. Just as the front door begins to open, Ruth stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear, "I'm sorry, but I don't quite come up to your mother's standards… I'm afraid I'm not wearing any knickers." And with that mind-boggling bit of information, as I stare at her in amazement, my mother's face appears in the doorway. "Malcolm! Where on earth have you been, I've been waiting for hours…you're so inconsiderate…" and then, catching sight of Ruth, "and who, may I ask, is this?" her tone frigid.

Before I can recover from the shock of Ruth's little revelation, she steps forward, right hand extended, her professional mask in place, and says smoothly, "Mrs Wynn-Jones, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Rachel Evans, Malcolm's partner." Partner? I focus on taking deep breaths, feeling the familiar tightness beginning to constrict my chest; but it is my mother's turn to look utterly confounded as she gingerly takes Ruth's hand, and Ruth/Rachel continues, "We were on an operation when Malcolm got the call, and we've only just managed to get away… I do apologise that you've been kept waiting, but I'm sure you understand. The nation's security must come first…" My God, but she's good, is the first cogent thought that emerges from my shell-shocked cerebellum. No wonder Harry thinks she's a born spook. Mother blinks in surprise; over her shoulder I can see Aunt Emily in the hallway, obviously wondering why we haven't yet come in, and then Mother steps back. "Honestly, Malcolm, don't be such a stick, let Miss Evans in. She'll think you have the most appalling manners, keeping her there on the doorstep." And so I find myself escorting Ruth into the dragon's lair, wondering if things can get any more bizarre as I watch Ruth and Mother walking companionably down the hallway, as Mother quizzes Ruth about our "work", talking nineteen to the dozen, and Aunt Emily steps forward to graze my cheek with a kiss; "Malcolm, you are a dark horse!" she whispers in my ear, before taking my arm as we follow the others towards the parlour.

Usually, when I pick up Mother from Aunt Emily's, it's a fairly utilitarian affair: bags in the boot, Mother installed in the front, a quick hug for Aunt Emily, and then it's off we go. Tea doesn't come into it, but as Mother comes into the parlour with the best silver tea service and offers Ruth tea in Aunt Emily's wedding china, I begin to feel as if I have somehow fallen through a crack in reality into Louis Carroll's Wonderland… the Red Queen, instead of screaming, 'Off with her head!', is offering Alice/Rachel/Ruth tea… a mad tea party, indeed, with Aunt Emily scuttling around like the White Rabbit, proffering hastily made salmon and cream cheese sandwiches and slices of her home-made bara brith. Ruth sits demurely, knees together, sipping tea, as Mother plies her eagerly with questions. "Malcolm never tells me anything about what he does; he's never even mentioned you. I thought his partner must have been Colin – I've met him a few times, but I suppose it's a security thing, isn't it?" Ruth smiles enigmatically, and I clear my throat. "Erm, perhaps we should think about getting on the road while it's still light?" Mother glares at me. "You've only just arrived, after a long trip, and already you want to leave? Honestly, Malcolm, poor Rachel hasn't even finished her tea yet, and no doubt you've both been up all night…" I nearly choke on my sandwich as I see Ruth's expression, half-hidden behind her tea cup. After a while, Aunt Emily gets up and begins to stack the tea tray; I offer to carry it out for her, and together we walk out into the kitchen. I have no qualms about leaving Ruth/Rachel alone with Mother; she seems to be in complete control of the situation, and I want to have a few minutes alone with my aunt.

Running hot water into the sink, Aunt Emily starts to wash up; dutifully, I pick up a tea towel and begin to dry the tea things. "So, how has she been?" I ask, and my aunt looks up at me, her soft brown eyes belying her worry. "Not good, love. She hasn't been taking her heart medication like she should, and she's gone through all the Valium you sent down for her, in fact we ran out the other night. I think she needs to go to her specialist once she's back home." Carefully drying a delicate tea cup, I ask, "What happened with the bridge club?" Aunt Emily rolls her eyes, and says, "Oh, your mother got it into her head that the other ladies thought she was cheating." "And was she?" I enquire, grimacing; Mother is a cutthroat card player, but I have never known her to be accused of cheating before. "Who knows, dear. They thought she was, and that was enough to set her off, you know how she gets." Yes, I do know how she gets, and I make a mental note to contact her doctors next week.

"Now, tell me all about Rachel," Aunt Emily continues, beaming at me, and for a moment I can't think who she means. Oh, Ruth! "Um, er, well…how did you know?" I begin stumblingly, and Aunt Emily chuckles. "Oh, like that, is it? Well, you deserve some happiness, after all that you've been through, and she seems nice enough; she's very bright, isn't she? And you're looking better than I've seen you in years!" She gives me a quick hug as we stand side by side at the sink. Touched, I hug her back: my lovely, affectionate aunt. She assures me, "I won't say anything to your mother." I smile gratefully at her, and we turn back to the washing up. A few minutes later, the kitchen is tidy, and I take note of the light beginning to fade in the sky. "Rachel would like to have a walk along the beach, before we head home; do you think you can put up with Mother for another hour or so?" Aunt Emily nods, "Get along with you, go and enjoy yourselves. We'll manage." I put Mother's bags into the car and then look into the parlour. "Rachel? Can I borrow you for a minute?" Ruth gets up immediately, excusing herself to my mother, and once she is out in the hallway, I say, "We've got about an hour of good light left, if you still wanted to see the beach?" She nods, smiling, and Aunt Emily shoos us out the door, pressing something flat into my hand as she does; opening my fingers, I see a large, wooden, brightly coloured key-fob, striped turquoise and azure. I stare at it, puzzled, for a second, before I recognise the colour scheme; it matches Aunt Emily's beach hut. Looking back at the villa, I see Aunt Emily watching from the front window, a wide smile on her face as I give her a tiny salute, before the lace curtain drops back into place and Ruth and I are alone again.

We walk briskly down to the seashore, Ruth pulling her coat tightly around her as a cold onshore wind riffles the water; tucking my arm around her waist, we stroll along the sand towards the long row of brightly coloured beach huts, my heart pounding at the feeling of her body pressed into my side. Ruth frees her hair from its tight ponytail, and as it whips about her face, she pulls away, and runs a few steps along the shore, arms held out at her sides like birds' wings as she bears into the wind, laughing with exhilaration as the waves pound onto the sand and a lone Atlantic gull wheels overhead, mewing its desolate cry. Something about the sound reminds me of Ruth's whisper, last night, and boldly, I decide to ask her about it. "Ruth?" I query, and she turns her face up to mine. 'Don't you mean, Rachel," she teases, and I smile back at her. "Last night, just as we were falling asleep, I thought I heard you say you had something to tell me?" Ruth seems to stiffen imperceptibly, just for a moment, before she laughs, "I just wanted to tell you how incredible you were, last night. Come on, slowcoach, I'll race you!"

Before I can think about it, I am trotting, and then jogging, after her as she darts along the deserted beach, her white coat flying out behind; she's surprisingly fast for someone who isn't fit enough for field work, but my legs are longer, and just before she reaches the beach huts, I draw nearly level with her, puffing hard. Lunging forwards, I grab her from behind as she shrieks with excitement, and wrapping my body around hers, hold her tight as I catch my breath. Slowly, she turns around in my arms, and my heart starts to race again at the sight of her; cheeks flushed, hair blowing in the wind, eyes shining with elation, breasts rising and falling with her exertions; she is so beautiful to me. Cupping her face in my hands, we kiss, as I press the length of my body along hers and she leans against the wall of the first beach hut. Ruth kisses back in earnest, lips curving into a smile as she slips her hands beneath my green Barbour jacket, and holds me even closer, feeling my growing arousal. Breaking off the embrace, I fish in my pockets until I find Aunt Emily's key, and hold it up to show Ruth. She giggles in answer to my unspoken question, and we both spot the hut at the same time; it is about halfway along the row, its bright blue stripes beckoning us. I lead her towards it, and with shaking hands unlock the double doors.

Once we are inside, I close the doors, shutting out the rising wind; as I turn back to her, in the semi-darkness, Ruth pushes me down onto the broad wooden changing-bench. Hitching her dress up, she straddles my lap before I can move, and unbuckles my belt in a business-like manner. "I've been dying to do this all day," she says, as she takes one hand and places it between her legs; she is already open, and as slick as seaweed, confirming her desire. "We really shouldn't," I protest half-heartedly as she quivers and gasps at my gentle, but insistent, touch. "That's perfect, now don't stop, no matter what I'm doing," she orders, as her hands busy themselves undoing my trousers; reaching inside, she frees me eagerly, breathing in my ear, "I want to feel you inside me, now," suiting word to action, and slowly engulfing me with a little sigh of anticipation that sets my blood leaping.

We are still, then, savouring the intimacy of our connection, like the moment of calm before the storm, and then Ruth steadies herself, hands holding my shoulders; I slide my other hand further under her dress to support her as she begins to move, carefully at first, and then with increasing enthusiasm, until she is rising and falling with the regularity of waves meeting the shore, her boot-clad calves clamped around my thighs. The sound of ragged breathing fills the little hut, and the air around us seems to crackle with electricity as Ruth pants, "Now, now, now, for fuck's sake, Malcolm, now," and I begin the small, precise motion that I know will bring her off; her nails digging into my back, Ruth moans loudly in pleasure as her internal muscles ripple and clutch at me; unbearably excited, I cry out her name as the tension that has been coiled deep in my belly all day reaches breaking point and my own climax starts, my hips bucking up to meet her and my spine arching, tightening muscles snapping my head back in ecstasy. Somewhere, I am vaguely aware of Ruth half gasping, half screaming, Yes yes yes yesYES!,and then she slumps against my chest, limp from her exertions, and I lean back against the wall of the hut, cradling her in my arms as our breathing slows and our pounding heartbeats settle back into their usual rhythms.

"That was bloody fantastic!" Ruth finally manages to get out, and I kiss her in agreement, stroking her hair over and over. Ruth draws my face towards her then, and kisses me deeply; my senses are overcome with her scent, her warmth, the softness of her body beneath her dress, the feeling of her tongue delicately exploring my mouth: she literally takes my breath away, this brilliant, enigmatic woman. My Ruth. Smiling, she whispers, "If we lived together, we could do this any time we liked…" and my still-racing heart quickens even further at this thought.

It is safe and warm in the hut, and it feels as if we are the only two people in the world, enclosed in our little abode. If I have become the master of Ruth's pleasure, then she is the absolute ruler of mine; our lives are inextricably entwined, I think sleepily, and murmur in protest as Ruth shifts and slips off my lap, placing both hands in the small of her back and stretching luxuriously. "God, I needed that! It was either that, or having to take liberties on the way back to London..." I am momentarily riveted to the spot, wondering what she might mean by 'take liberties', but it is a much more practical question that makes its way to the forefront of my brain. "I don't mean to ask awkward questions, but why were you…" "Oh, that? It's simple. I didn't have a spare pair with me, and I didn't fancy wearing last night's again. I suppose I had vague ideas of finding a Marks and Sparks in Bournemouth before we got to the house…it wasn't intentional, believe me, but then when I saw how nervous you were, I thought if I told you, it would at least take your mind off introducing me to your mother…and it worked, didn't it?" I blink in sheer astonishment at this train of thought, and beneath the post-orgasmic bliss, I begin to feel a certain sense of unease. Ruth, I have begun to understand, has a reckless, impulsive streak; risk doesn't fill her with terror, as it does me, but with excitement. In her work, she makes calculated risks all the time, whereas my job is to mitigate and prevent risk. I don't know why I didn't see it before… my stomach does a slow flip of foreboding as I consider where the fictional Rachel Evans might end up taking us… I love her, but why do I suddenly feel sick with apprehension? "You're welcome, by the way," she continues, and I look at her, puzzled. "For Rachel Evans…I think your mother swallowed it, all right. Well, people believe what they want to believe, don't they?" I don't even know where to begin, regarding Rachel Evans, and so I say nothing. I would not willingly have lied to Mother, even for Ruth…

Groping along the wall, Ruth finds the light switch and flicks it on. "Come on, Malcolm. We can't stay here all day, much as I would love to…we've got to get back to London, with your mother." I groan in protest, feeling as if I may never move again, but Ruth peers around the half-partition at the back of the hut. "I thought so. There's a shower back here, and some towels; I'm just going to freshen up," she tells me, unzipping her boots and shimmying out of her dress. I must drop off to sleep, for the next thing I know, Ruth is shaking me awake. "Malcolm? Malcolm!" I force an eye open, and she says, "Go and have a quick shower, it'll help to wake you up, and besides…you know," she temporises, and I blush as I heave myself upright and head into the tiny shower. Idly, I wonder when Aunt Emily did up the hut; there is even a lavatory, and a little hand-basin. All the modern conveniences, as the estate agents would say. I strip quickly, shivering as the cold wind whistles through cracks in the painted planks, and hop into the minute cubicle, washing and drying myself in record time, before hurrying back into my clothes.

It is after five o'clock, and the sun has well and truly set by the time we make our way back to Aunt Emily's and make our farewells. There is a tense moment when I think Mother is going to vie for the front seat with Ruth, but Ruth kindly offers to get in the back, and Mother, still spellbound by Rachel Evans, spy, and determined not to be outdone in the grace and favour department, insists she take the front seat. "Really, I'd think that Malcolm would have offered it to you himself, after all you do work together!" she snipes, as she clambers inelegantly into the rear seat and I shut her door a bit more sharply than I had intended, before opening the front passenger door for Ruth. She catches sight of my face as she gets in, and mouths the word, "Breathe." I nod as I walk around to the driver's side, and lean down to give Aunt Emily one last hug. "Oh, I almost forgot, here's your key back!" I say, feeling it still in my pocket. "Thank you," I say fervently, sotto voce, and she gives me an extra tight squeeze around the ribcage before releasing me and standing back as I slide into the driver's seat; and then, we're off, headed back to London, with Mother soon snoring in the back, and Ruth's hand resting on mine upon the burl walnut gear-knob, and the possibility of a deepening relationship dancing tantalisingly ahead of us all the way, just beyond the reach of the Rover's headlamps. Possibilities and fears, hopes and dreams…what else makes up our little lot in life, after all? If only I can find the courage to match my love…

Ruth soon drops off too, fast asleep against the passenger door, and I take to reciting poetry beneath my breath to keep awake as I drive into the darkness; tonight, oddly, I seem to be in the mood for Wordsworth, that most romantic of English poets.

Come!—let me see thee sink into a dream

Of quiet thoughts,—protracted till thine eye

Be calm as water when the winds are gone

And no one can tell whither.—my sweet friend!

We two have had such happy hours together

That my heart melts in me to think of it.

Ah yes, exactly so, Mr Wordsworth, exactly so.

A/N: the verses Malcolm is quoting are from Travelling, by William Wordsworth.