Collapsed across my chest, Louisa sleeps, our legs still intertwined, her breath warm against my skin. Absently, I stroke her hair; luxuriant, soft, my arm rising and falling gently with the rhythm of her breathing. She has left me supine, sprawled across a lumpy mattress, pinned down among faded cushions, piles of old blankets, and plastic bags overflowing with jumble, yet I have never been so comfortable; content simply to stare up at the sagging ceiling while she rests. Whatever sorcery effected this moment, I will not question it; just to lie like this with her again fills me with elation, my mind quietened, my body utterly sated.

Lazily, I trace her shoulder blade, her spine, the small of her back; her skin as smooth as satin, her body deliciously firm. A wry smile flickers across my face. The hours I lay awake in this room as a child never ever imagining I'd return one day, barely able to breathe, incapable of rational thought, my heart hammering in my chest as if I were tachycardic. That serious little boy, determined that science would help him make sense of the world. Memorising diagrams, frowning at textbooks, observing livestock with utter distaste; how laughable to look back now, recalling how he thought he understood, how convinced he was that he had learned all there was to know about the act of consummation.

My mind wanders and I stifle a yawn, speculating idly if things might have been different had I returned to Cornwall as an adolescent. I doubt it since, by that time, I was widely considered thoroughly detestable by all who knew me. Though she was my most steadfast childhood supporter, I'm sure I would have tested even the stubborn affections of my Auntie Joan. Stacking firewood and collecting eggs were certainly not on my teenage agenda. By then my die was already cast; I was determined to pursue medicine at any cost, intent on not caring what anyone thought of me; sarcasm, incivility and silence were the languages in which I was particularly fluent. At school I wore my unpopularity like badge of honour, resolved not to do or say anything that might dissuade people from despising me, keeping absolutely everyone at arm's length. By age fourteen I'd already perfected my adult persona; coldly dismissive, aloof and abrupt.

Louisa shifts languidly, and settles, her eyelashes like a tiny feather drawn lightly across my chest. I exhale, a long, drawn-out breath; bloody hell, if only I'd known how my childhood strategy of closing down and building walls would become so deeply entrenched, and so hopelessly unsatisfactory. If ever I needed proof of the first class idiot I've been, it is this, laying here entangled with Louisa, her warm, lithe flesh pressed against me; so feminine, so tactile. Yet, at the first sign of adversity, I resorted to type, I raised the drawbridge, I shut her out completely. How illogical, how self-sabotaging when I have always been so desperate for the comfort she provided. Sick with regret, and hungry for reassurance, my hand slides beneath the crumpled fabric of her skirt, a smooth pert cheek fitting perfectly into the curve of my hand. So much for a stiff upper lip, Ellingham, for never admitting weakness; it almost cost you everything, it damn near cost you Louisa.

I hear her voice, a soft murmur in her sleep, and I pull her to me tightly. A residue still remains, a sensation of those incredible few minutes we were fused together, she and I; her need a tightly enveloping softness, the most divine dewy heat. After the events of last several weeks, it had rendered me almost delirious; she took everything I had, expunging every conscious thought, and all I could hear was her voice, husky and fervent, whispering that she loved me as she shuddered to a climax. And now, in the calm that follows, everything feels so safe, so peaceful, as if we both know without doubt that what we have is sacrosanct. Wrapped around each other, bodies ravished, minds relieved, I know with all my heart: if I am to build another fortress, let it be around this.

I press my lips to her forehead, inhaling her, breathing her in; a scent redolent of intimacy and desire but, now too, of security and trust. So much reveals itself in this haze of oxytocin but to be so utterly in her thrall feels like the most natural thing thing in the world. Of all those who have had power over me in my life, I can think of very few who have wielded it with any kindness, and none so generously as Louisa. Smouldering as she stood before me, pulling her sweater over her head, and pushing me backwards with an insolent toss of her head; an arousing sight for any man, utterly incredible for someone like me, an insensitive, ascetic clot, who had resigned himself once more to a grim, solitary sort of future.

My breathing slows. Lying here feels almost dreamlike, as if I am not completely sure that I am even awake. Minutes pass, perhaps even hours; everything so perfectly still. Such restorative silence; nowhere to be and nothing to do, no demands, no expectations, no telephones, no pagers. Discarded with such ferocious haste, I have no idea where my watch is, nor my boxers, nor my tie. But even a growing regret at missing lunch is not motivation enough for me to disturb her, and I will lie here for as long as I need to, wearing Louisa like a second, spectacular skin. Downstairs a clock strikes the quarter hour, distance rendering the chime ghostly and surreal. She stirs then, turning her head to gaze up at me with heavily-lidded eyes, contemplative and perhaps almost shy.

"Hello…" I say gently, not moving a muscle, as if she were a timid fawn that might be easily startled.

She smiles at me, sleep rendering her so sweetly vulnerable, and I feel it acutely, a sharp thud deep within my chest.

"Gosh, have I been asleep long?" She murmurs, pushing herself on to her elbows and glancing around, blinking as if she is emerging from a dark cave into the midday sunlight. "Sorry…"

I reach up, encouraging a lock of hair back behind her ear. "No, it's…umm…it's fine. I expect you're rather tired. I mean, you've had a demanding week…"

A little acknowledging grimace, but not an ounce of self-pity to be seen and, once again, I find myself in awe of her courage, so in love with her indomitable spirit. Holding my breath, I wonder if I might kiss her again or if the more chivalrous act would be to propose that she showers, before I then ensure that she eats. But, before I can suggest it, she sits up and turns her head, her hair the most delicate caress as it sweeps across my shoulder. And, inches from my mouth now, creamy flesh in the shape of a flawless breast, the distracting hint of a wobble as she reaches up to rub her eyes.

I groan internally. Making love even once in this house was madness, and knowing we could be discovered at any moment, in flagrante delicto, by my aunt suggests that a second round would be wanton at best, irresponsible and unreasonably fraught with danger. But, dear god, look at her, she is utterly faultless; lithe and sensual, yet exuding such joyfulness, and so much warmth. My heart seems to expand to fill my chest, leaving no room for me to catch my breath. Wrapping an arm around her ribs, I twist onto my side, forcing much of Joan's collection of rubbish to the floor. Louisa muffles a squeal, and it sounds like delight, throwing back her head and laughing as I roll her on to her back. Her hands go to to her hair, fanned out spectacularly across the bed, and she gazes up at me, the whites of her eyes so clear, the contrasting malachite green of her irises almost hypnotic.

"What have you been doing? Have you just been lying there, awake?" She asks, lifting her chin, a vague smirk twitching at the corners of her mouth.

"Umm, yes. Lying there, obviously. And thinking…"

"About?"

"A number of things." I say, leaning down to kiss her, telling myself that just one gentle peck won't necessarily be inflammatory.

But her lips are like a late summer blackberry, soft and ripe, delicate and melting, and suddenly she is heaven on earth, laughing, languid, pliant; her hand in my hair, biting playfully at my lip as she pulls away.

"Such as?" She says, expectantly.

I shift my weight and, instantly, she yields; her smile provocative as I slip between her thighs, the pressure of her flesh against mine so heady, almost unendurable, a battering ram against what is left of my resolve. No man in his right mind would abandon her now, and simply walk away. Following the edge of her ribs lightly with my index finger, I feel something akin to euphoria as she shivers. Goose bumps ripple across her chest, I bend, tracing a circle around a perfect areola before taking it into my mouth. She arches her back and I glance up at her, testing her need for an explanation with the tip of my tongue. God she is so beautiful, so unselfconscious; slim arms flung elegantly over her head, her hair tumbling loosely around her shoulders. And that faint smirk, that insouciance that sparkles on her face even though her eyes are almost closed.

"Martin Ellingham, are you tryin' to distract me?" She says breathlessly, and she laughs.

My hand goes to her hip, my mouth to her abdomen and she stretches like a cat in the sun; languorous, sultry, provocative. As we drove back from the village I'd been resolved to tell her everything, convinced that a thorough explanation of my circumstances before she left was the least she deserved. Huge forgiving heart that Louisa has, my clumsy apology had seemed enough for her but it shouldn't be enough for me. If I am determined that things will be different from now on, it seems crucial she understands: whatever impression I might have given her, however badly I behaved, it was never because I loved her any less

But the softness of her body is a little too enticing, circumstances have kept us apart for what seems like an eternity and, suddenly, I have no need of conversation. From her navel, across to her hip, to the top of her thigh; her skin feels like warm silk beneath my lips. And now, as usual, it becomes almost hypnotic, the need to lose myself in her; eyes closed, breathing hard, running my hands over every inch of her, lingering on her glorious arse, the back of her thigh, murmuring her name like a spell as I ease her knee up toward her chest. Dreamy-eyed, she watches my progress, lips parted, her smile beatific. Such a familiar urgency, my fingers cupping her breast, her mouth so sensual, my knees slipping on a counter pane worn smooth by decades of use.

"Martin! How many chimes was that?"

"Sorry…What?"

"The clock just struck the hour! How many chimes?"

"Umm…I don't know, I wasn't counting them!"

She pushes herself upright and, for a moment, I hang my head, incredulous at yet another interruption, frowning at her as it suddenly dawns on me she seems now rather anxious, her voice breathless, her speech rapid, talking over the top of me in her panic-stricken haste

"It was at least three, wasn't it?….Martin?"

"Louisa, what on earth?…"

"…But it could have been four!"

"At least three, definitely…" I concede, but she's not listening.

"…Oh my god!"

"Louisa! What is the matter?"

"…The keys Martin! I was supposed to have them back to the landlord at two…"

Crushed, I don't even attempt to muffle a groan, feeling thwarted and disappointed in equal measure. "Really?…I mean, does it matter if you're an hour late?"

"It's not that simple. He's already given me an extension…and he wasn't very happy about that."

"Right." I reply crisply, as my heart sinks even lower. "I see."

"Oh Martin, don't look at me like that. I'm sorry!"

I gaze at her helplessly. Of course, she must return the keys. She had an agreement with the owner of the cottage and she must honour that. But, for the life of me, I don't want to move from this bed. I am almost in a trance, and as usual it is Louisa that seduces me as she writhes, and trembles and gasps my name. But, honestly, I'm aware that to stop now is the only responsible approach. A cold shower, a fresh shirt, and a rapid drive to Port Gaverne. Forgetting all about the slow, intense ingress I had been building toward. Forgetting about the effect this indolent, lingering exploration of her body has had on me: A contract is a contract. Louisa gave her word.

So find myself in a state of discomfort; crestfallen for the second time today. Frowning, her mouth set in a regretful pout, she curves her hand around my cheek, and reaches up to kiss me.

"I don't want to stop either, actually, if that helps?" She mutters ruefully, after a moment, collapsing backwards onto the mattress, and pressing her palms to her eyes.

It doesn't help at all for her to lie there like that, and I feel suddenly resentful, my prurient state fomenting a fierce sort of recklessness.

"To hell with him!" I hear myself blurt out. "Another bloody hour won't make any difference…"

Clasping her wrists across her forehead, she looks at me from beneath them, resigned, apologetic.

"Yeah, I know, but the thing is, I need the bond back…" She explains. "And, he can be a bit, you know…difficult. Especially since…well, let's just say we Glassons aren't the most popular family in Portwenn right now…"

"Let me deal with him, then." I say, and my tone is churlish. "You can just wait in the car if you like, if you'd prefer to avoid any unpleasantness…"

Even before I finish my sentence, I'm aware of the way her eyes narrow, and suddenly she is staring up at me in a way that makes me feel like I am venturing into the lion's cage with neither whip nor chair. And I know what she's thinking; that everything that matters to her, her independence, her self-reliance, is already under threat. She bites on her lip, and her expression darkens, but it seems such an obvious solution. Nothing means more to me now than being with her. Feeling utterly shameless, I seek out her breast, running my thumb lightly across her nipple, watching as her arrector pili muscles contract.

"Louisa, the truth is, I couldn't care less about rental agreements, or leases, or legal documents of any sort." I tell her. "And I don't care if we turn up horribly late. Sod everything else, I want to stay here."

She gazes back at me speculatively, my beautiful, mercurial Louisa, her face expressing every gamut of emotion as she wrestles with her thoughts. When she does eventually speak, she is breathless, and both cautious and eager; her mouth curving into a sweetly hopeful smile.

"Do you, Martin?" She says earnestly and I am rendered light headed, intoxicated; my chest tight, moisture welling in my eyes.

"Yes." I assure her, and it's all I can do to nod.

"Okay then."

I pull her to me and the outside world is obscured once more. Closing my eyes, I press my mouth to her ear; hoarse, and whispering what I struggle to say out loud; fervid in my declaration of love, and imploring her, please, just let me fix this.

"Don't think that this is going to be a regular thing though, Martin, just because you've caught me in a susceptible moment…" She says, but her tone is without rancour, and the smile in her voice is an elixir, a momentary panacea for what feels like months of fear, exhaustion and uncertainty.

And, my god, the urgency I feel to immerse myself in her is almost overwhelming, that first touch, that breathless little sound emanating from deep in her throat, urging me on when words fail us both. Divine Louisa, everything about her so hopeful, so generous; how many times have I stared at her, in utter disbelief such a beautiful creature has not only invited me in but has let me find a home in her. I'm still doing it now, snatching a glance at her face, her eyes closed, lips parted, her dreamy, indolent smile a reward for every slow shift of my hips. Deliberately slower, ever deeper, so exquisitely in unison that she becomes part of me. And the end, when it comes, is silently exhilarating; I am both weightless and elated, and depleted and utterly drained.

Eventually my breathing slows but I remain reluctant to move, rather loath to relinquish this moment. Perhaps it is the closest I've ever been to how I want to feel. But I promised Louisa that I would sort her key dilemma and it is that pledge that forces me back to the mundane. Scuttling out of the room, enveloped only in my billowing shirt, she claims the first shower, while I pick up my Aunt's dismal selection of secondhand detritus, surprised at how widely it is now scattered across the floor. Retrieving what remains of my clothing, I discover both Louisa's watch and mine, almost obscured against the wall beneath a half-knitted sweater. As I close the door behind me, I clutch them tightly in my hand, like some sort of talisman. Convinced I would never ever again discard my attire in the throes of passion, the events if the few hours seem utterly fantastical.

I pause in the hallway; this situation is so new to me, and rather unprecedented, so I'm not entirely sure of the rules, and certainly not game to assume Louisa and I can again share the bathroom. Instead, I fetch my bag from the car and busy myself in the kitchen until I hear her footsteps on the landing. When she does eventually emerge, casually attired and effortlessly lovely, her tone is rather breathlessly eager, and her smile just a little self-conscious. Perhaps, like me, she is experiencing a sense of bewilderment, of awe, of disbelief; sneaking furtive glances, incredulous that a relationship we both considered moribund has been resuscitated rather spectacularly.

I clear my throat. "I won't be long." I tell her, gesturing awkwardly at the table, and a mug of tea, as we stand there, neither of us moving, neither of us entirely sure of what to do.

In the end, I turn on my heel, and run up the stairs with the speed of Hermes, hurling myself into the bathroom and standing under the feeble trickle of tepid water long enough to perform the simplest of ablutions. A clean shirt and a fresh suit and my composure is restored. For luck, Henry Ellingham's monogrammed cufflinks, for sentimentality, the last tie Louisa helped me choose. Glancing in the mirror, I appear surprisingly relaxed, perhaps even somewhat rejuvenated. I make my way back to her, buoyed and suddenly so acutely conscious that if I can redeem myself with Louisa, surely I can fix anything that my professional life throws at me now. My god, how satisfying it will be to emancipate myself entirely from my parents, how fulfilling it will be to excise them from my life. And to do it with Louisa at my side will make it even more gratifying.

"You look nice." Louisa says, standing up as I enter the room.

I feel myself colour slightly, ducking my chin self-consciously and offering to help her with her jacket. "Umm, are you ready? Shall we go?"

Winter is certainly upon us, the cool, crisp air of the afternoon removing any lingering doubt. An ineffectual sun hangs low in the sky, casting no warmth, merely long, icy shadows. Tentatively, I offer my arm and she accepts without protest, taking the shortcut up the steepest part of the bank, that familiar path, the long grass wet and slippery beneath our feet. A pheasant leaps from the undergrowth, shrieking a warning, startling us both. She laughs at me then, squeezing my forearm affectionately, in a way that makes everything seem so normal, so reassuringly familiar; Louisa is teasing me and all is right with the world.

As I hold open the car door, a squabble breaks out in the hen house and she turns her head in their direction, looking across at the brawling, moth-eaten fowls with what seems almost like goodwill. Bloody awful things, chickens; when I was a boy, we seemed to spend half my holidays either trying to treat lice infestations or prevent them from reoccurring. In my dinosaur phase, I admit I found the Archaeopteryx connection mildly interesting, however, I soon came to detest the bullying hens and aggressive cockerels rather thoroughly; vile-smelling, beady-eyed little cannibals that they all are. I was never game enough to wring their necks though, no matter how much encouragement I received from my bloodthirsty aunt.

As the dust settles, and a cloud of ginger feathers drift and swirl erratically to the ground, Louisa ducks away and I find myself standing on the lawn alone, mildly distracted as she bends over and appears to examine the car's footwell. I wonder how long this sense of incredulity will remain with me. Weeks spent believing I would never see her again, endless hours of reflection, misery and regret, and yet here I am, casting appreciative and slightly smug glances at her from behind. Such a pleasant indolence weighs down my limbs, I am awash with a tsunami of satisfaction. And I was right about one thing all along, too . As I tell my patients constantly: one's quality of life can be improved immeasurably, simply by making better choices. Small changes can indeed make an enormous difference, it's just a shame it took me far too long to heed my own advice and, for that fact alone, I do now feel rather sheepish.

"Joan's a bit worried her new rooster isn't quite up to the job." Louisa says lightly, perching on the outer edge of the seat and pulling her bag up on her shoulder.

"Not up for the job? I wouldn't have thought being a rooster was all that complicated…"

She smiles. "Well Joan said, apparently, he's keen as mustard when it comes to the impregnation part but, as you saw then, he's rubbish at keeping the peace."

I watch as she wriggles into the seat, reaching for her seatbelt and smoothing down her dress across her thighs. I clear my throat vigorously and press the door firmly shut.

"He'll learn." I reply briskly, to no one in particular, as I make my way around the car.

Chickens forgotten, I am now on a mission, accelerating up the driveway, grimacing as brambles and bare branches screech along my paintwork. "Is there a back way to this landlords house or do I head toward the village?"

But she is distracted, fossicking in her bag and casting confused glances around the vehicle.

"Umm, keep on going, I'll tell you when to turn." She says vaguely, opening the glovebox and peering in to it.

"Louisa, are you looking for something?"

"Yeah, my watch. It's odd. I know I had it on at dad's cottage but I don't know what I've done with it. I wondered if I'd dropped it in here…."

"Your watch? I have it. It was…umm…I found it upstairs…on the floor beside the bed."

"Oh, brilliant! I thought I was going bonkers…" She says, and her hand goes to my knee.

Glancing down, I realise I've even grown quite partial to the way it looks, draped across my leg. Neat, sensible nails that are never too long and always spotlessly clean. Lovely, long, elegant fingers, curling around my thigh. No vulgar or ostentatious display of jewellery, in fact there is not a ring to be seen, each digit slim and smooth and bare.

"So where is it now?" She asks genially, her grip on me tightening as we fly around a rather poorly cambered bend.

Here alone, even outside the security of a bedroom, the pressure of her touch is still rather invigorating. But I have conquered my discomfort, and learned to appreciate such gestures as genuine affection, something that seems significantly more important since I almost drove her away for good. How she tests me though, seeking out my limits, usually deliberately but even sometimes unconsciously. Recalling the events of this morning makes me swallow hard, and moisten my lips. The close proximity of the woman I love, and whom I believed was lost to me forever, sliding her hand inside my trouser pocket, performing an exploration that can only be described as one of the single most excruciating moments of my life. Fighting arousal with every fibre of my being, my heart rate felt as if it had soared to over two hundred bpm, not the ideal preparation for an emergency re-inflation of a lung under non-sterile conditions. And with everything still so cold between us, having her hand proximal to my groin was torturous and, at the same time, incredibly provocative; dear god, I feared I was about to lose my mind.

I clear my throat.

"Your watch is where all lost property will now be placed for safekeeping." I tell her airily, and I wait for her to turn and look at me expectantly, to feel the intensity of her stare, before I casually tap my trouser pocket.