Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz. The characters of Christopher Foyle and Elizabeth Addis were created by Anthony Horowitz, Michael Kitchen and Hermione Gulliford. No infringement is intended.
Author: Wolseley37
Author's Note: Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading the manuscript! It's been a few years, but I thought I would take Foyle and Addis to the next stage of their relationship. It was rather trickier to get them there than I expected. If there are any readers still interested, I hope you don't mind the careful approach.
Another Note: This is the (T) non-racy version. To find the (M) for Mature version, set your filters to (All).
FW 1947: Post-Elise, Foyle and Addis
Chapter 25
Foyle slowed the car and manoeuvred to the kerb, parking in front of the handsome house in St. John's Wood. He was aware that his companion in the passenger seat had been covertly chafing her fingers earlier, and then had gone noticeably still and quiet some ten minutes ago, gazing out of the side window. It was only half past eight, yet felt rather like midnight. He was mindful of the gamut of emotions Elizabeth had experienced in the course of this long, eventful day, and turned to her with a solicitous look,
"Here we are, sweetheart. Shall I, er…?"
She swivelled her head to regard him — more alert than he'd expected — and lifted a brow above a sparkling eye, waiting for him to complete his ambiguous question. Foyle considered how best to phrase it, to leave the choice in her hands.
"Shall I… s-see you to your door?"
Elizabeth smiled that subtle smile he so enjoyed, and murmured,
"…To it, through it, and up to the bedroom, if you like…"
He bent his head, amused and grateful for her unambiguous answer.
"I…would like, if you're entirely sure? Quite aware we're not…legally married yet."
She leaned across to press her lips to his, her hand on his cheek. Her luminous grey eyes met his, which, in the darkness of the car's interior, had deepened to an almost cobalt blue.
"I'm entirely sure that I'd very much like your company. And I don't think my conscience will be too bothered."
While their application for a Special License to marry had been successful, they would have to return to the Register Office tomorrow to complete the business. And there was the matter of choosing a ring, which they would see to in the morning — or the afternoon, if their evening together proved as exciting as it seemed to promise.
After opening the car door and helping her out onto the pavement, Foyle raised an index finger and went to the car boot, fetching his small suitcase. Elizabeth's eyes widened, highly entertained at his forethought for what they were about to begin together.
Once they'd helped each other out of hats and coats in the entry, and stepped through to the sitting room, he set his case by the stairs and she couldn't resist teasing,
"You were fairly confident I could be persuaded…?"
"No, was fairly confident I could be persuaded."
Beaming, he went to her and held her in his arms,
"Vvvery susceptible to brilliant, attractive, brave women."
Her eyes closed in pleasure at the compliment, and she confessed,
"Well, in truth, Christopher, I had thought I wanted a longish, proper courtship from you, but…" she pressed her lips together, "…it turned out you could have me for a song."
He chuckled quietly,
"…Must write to thank the Gershwin brothers…"
Then added with a warm, steady gaze into her eyes,
"Darling…, um, courtship…needn't end at marriage…"
Rather pleased with the sentiment, her cheeks went a delicate shade of pink,
"That sounds very promising…"
Christopher moved his hands from her upper back down to her waist, and a little frisson of mixed excitement and nerves went through her body. She asked him,
"Would you…care for a drink…?"
Keeping eye contact, he shook his head slowly,
"Nup. Unless…you'd like one…?"
"No, I…think not."
They drew together, kissed and caressed until their clothing began to feel something of a hindrance, and she breathed into his collar,
"Let's…"
"…Lead the way."
She took his hand and he followed her, bright-eyed, snatching up his case, then leaving it at the top of the stairs against the balusters.
In her bedroom, by lamplight, they faced each other, earnest and smiling with anticipation. Elizabeth laid her hands on his chest, gathering her courage. Foyle waited, arms at his sides — very conscious of her unusual marital history, as well as the wartime kidnapping and the intimate assault she had reluctantly divulged to him — expecting there would be further consequential details to learn about this exceptional woman, given her hard-won success in a career amongst ambitious men.
But he soon raised an eyebrow as if daring her.
She accepted the challenge with a flash of her eyes, and pushed the suit jacket from his shoulders. However, her natural organisational habits had her folding and draping his jacket on the nearby chair, which Foyle appreciated with fond amusement.
Though it followed that he should remove her jacket, he stepped closer, taking only the neat lapel between his right thumb and fingertips, and looked into her eyes,
"You, em, referred to this earlier as your 'armour'."
"I did. In professional settings it serves as a necessary indicator of rank, …and as an essential boundary. However, at home…, with you, Christopher…" she smiled and tilted her head invitingly.
"Nnot needed? May I…help?"
"I'd like that."
They kissed again, then he let his fingers glide down the lapel to the first button, which lay over her enticing cleavage, and he undid it one-handed.
Elizabeth watched his face, admired his downturned lashes and the gentle upward curve at the corner of his mouth while he, quite unhurriedly, opened each button of her grey pinstriped suit. She felt a calmness settle over her nerves, along with a rising certainty that this… that he…was her future.
Foyle lifted the jacket off her shoulders and slid the silk-lined sleeves down her arms, nosing against her neck to breathe in her scent of jasmine and something exotic he couldn't identify. He folded and tossed the jacket onto the chair with his, then met her eyes again, laying his hands lightly on her upper arms.
"This all right…?"
"It certainly is."
Smiling to herself, she began to remove her watch, but he unfastened the strap for her, and placed a soft kiss on the pulse point. He held her wrist near his nose,
"…What scent is this? Not sure I know it."
She looked into his azure eyes, interested that he cared to know.
"It's by a Cairo parfumerie. This is called 'Salma.' An Arabic feminine name that means 'peaceful' and 'to be safe.'" *
He gave a small nod and a little frown of enquiry,
"…Jasmine? And…?"
"Notes of narcissus, oakmoss and myrrh."
"Myrrh? As in…frankincense?" A self-conscious smile, recalling his own, and Andrew's, school Christmas pageants.
"Never actually heard what it was for. Didn't know it was used in perfumes."
"Yes, it's been an element in oriental perfumes for centuries. It's a resin, from the myrrh tree. It enhances and …prolongs the scents of the other ingredients…"
"Hmm…It's very…emmm…"
Foyle was lost in the double spell of the perfume and her fascinating grey eyes, but after a slow blink he came to an awareness that his questions had rather stalled their progress. With another kiss on the pale underside of her wrist he relinquished her arm.
"Y-your turn." He offered lightly, adapting their game from earlier in the evening.
Elizabeth's smile grew.
"Well then…" She surveyed his various layers, plotting the order of removal, "…cufflinks, next."
Foyle raised his forearms and dutifully presented his wrists, encouraging her with a steady look. She first removed his watch and set it with hers on the nightstand, then attended to his French cuffs.
"These are very handsome..." She commented, with a rising inflection, on the rectangular-shaped sterling silver and onyx adornments — apparently his only jewellery. If there was a matching tie stud or bar, he chose not to wear it.
"Oh, em, a presentation…for twenty-five years with the police."
"Ah…Not from a grateful paramour…"
He shut his eyes with a silent huff of laughter, then regarded her with lowered chin,
"Nnoo."
She twisted off the links and, for safekeeping, slipped the pair slowly down into his trouser pocket. Elizabeth provocatively held his gaze as her fingertips brushed the top of his thigh, causing a quick indrawn breath, an undeniable throb and a widening of his blue eyes.
With a hint of a smile she murmured,
"That's for your impertinent leer in the College's attic guest room."
Equally amused and aroused, he swept the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip,
"Oh, I see. Wull, you, er…have another turn, then."
Leaning nearer he inhaled the light floral scent of her hair — hibiscus?
Elizabeth put a hand on his shoulder for balance. She kicked away her medium heeled pumps, dropping down to his eye level, then nuzzled cat-like under his jawline and chin, not at all put off by his evening stubble. She blindly unbuttoned his waistcoat, slid it from his shoulders and they both let it fall. Foyle, smiling subtly, found himself pleasantly lightheaded, and rested his hands on her hips, while her fingers went straight to work unknotting his red tie.
She looked up at his blithe expression,
"I'm three turns ahead, I think. Are you still playing…?"
Enjoying her saucy challenge, Christopher snorted quietly, nodded, and began unfastening the little buttons of her pink blouse.
Tilting his head to see around her fingers and through her arms, he offered conversationally,
"Ohh, I'm known as a…box-to-box player…always somewhere on the field."
After a moment contemplating what 'the field' would be in this context, she adjusted her face to a blank mask,
"Neither I…nor any of my friends…know anything about rugby…, so your sport allusions are lost on me."
He snorted again, but wasn't sure if she intended it entirely as a joke, so he supplied,
"It's…er…football, actually."
"I'll take your word for it." She said airily, but her lips fought a losing battle with a wry smile. She drew off his dark red necktie and flung it toward the chair.
Having defeated the buttons down her front and on both cuffs, Christopher pulled the blouse up carefully from her skirt waistband, peeled it off her shoulders, and the pink blouse landed on the chair.
He took a moment to enjoy the form-fitting cream-coloured slip that was revealed, and the alluring figure of the woman in it. But then he saw the fresh purple bruise on her upper arm. He was appalled, and his voice, though quiet, rose half an octave,
"Was this from me? Last night?"
She angled her elbow for a cursory glance,
"Oh, it's nothing. In the service of protecting my life—."
"—W'I do apologise, Elizabeth." His face showed a depth of remorse.
"—It's entirely forgivable."
Looking into his troubled eyes, she saw more was needed, and took his head between her hands,
"Christopher. This is me…forgiving you…" And she kissed him tenderly.
His eyes reopened slowly, accompanied by a sheepish half-smile, which she noted with satisfaction.
"Now, darling…, I believe it's still your turn…"
After a regretful shake of the head, Christopher swallowed, and refocused. He'd been thrown entirely out of his mellow mood and rather off course, seeing the bruise, but now he was sidetracked again with curiosity at the somewhat lean muscled definition of her shoulders and arms, and had to enquire,
"…Elizabeth, …you were…an athlete?"
The question took her by surprise. It was a part of her past that no one in her current life knew about her, or even cared to know. She met his eyes again, pleased to be asked.
"Y-yes, actually… University Women's Boat Club — women's eights. …And swimming — they rather go hand-in-hand. And cross country running, though there was no official women's team."
"Hmh."
He closed one eye,
" …Oh, then you do have some knowledge of 'sport'?"
A little guilty smile,
"Well, not football, Christopher. …We girls weren't allowed to play. …But yes, I know my way around a hockey pitch, or a tennis court."
He made no further comment other than to glow with even more admiration for this remarkable woman.
Returning to the matter at hand, he let his right thumb follow the lacework on the low-cut neckline of her slip, his palm ghosting over her breast.
Elizabeth inhaled quickly, her eyelids fluttering nearly closed.
"This all right, lov—?"
Her answer was to reach for the back of his neck and kiss him hard, trapping his hand between their bodies. He eagerly took the opportunity to fondle her lovely full breast through the thin layers of her silky slip and brassière, bringing a firm peak to her nipple and a soft plea from her throat. Christopher deepened the kiss, trying a gentle probing with his tongue. Elizabeth responded to his invasion tentatively, but soon with more confidence in their mutual exploration.
Emboldened to keep up his part in their undressing game, as they kissed Foyle moved his hands down her slender body to deftly unhook and unzip her skirt at the back. She let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it, sweeping it aside with her foot.
He breathed against her hair,
"Am I caught up…?" and began opening the top buttons of his own shirt.
"Mhm-hmm. Let me help with those."
She started further down on his midriff and when her fingers met the waistband of his trousers Christopher intervened to guide her hands to his braces. She pushed them off to hang at his hips, and he pulled up his shirttails. He hadn't bothered with a vest that morning, and, in light of her revealed athleticism, made a token effort to pull in his stomach.
Spreading open the two sides of his shirt, Elizabeth bit her bottom lip, fascinated by his soft mat of chest hair. She ran her hands downward from his collarbones, caressing the warmth of his broad breast and feeling his dark nipples harden into small buds. Seeing the deep rise and fall of his breathing, a doubt crept into her mind as to the limits of his self-control. Again she rallied her courage, trusting in her experience of his character. And so, with some helpful shoulder rolling on his part, she eased the cotton fabric down and off Christopher's arms.
With an upside down smile, he took the shirt from her hands, and turned away to toss it onto the chair.
Elizabeth's brow furrowed — dismayed yet impressed by the rough scars of old battle wounds across his right arm, shoulder and back — but also disquieted by the obvious power of his upper body. She saw that he, like so many other men, had been trained for combat, for violence. Suddenly her imagination conjured a distressing scene in which she was unwillingly overpowered: it had happened to her in the past, and more than once.
She told herself there was nothing to fear, surely, from this honourable and respectful man. She trusted him…and she wanted him —desired him.
But on her terms.
As he turned around to face her, she calmed her breathing and composed her features.
Christopher noticed that Elizabeth was trembling, either from nerves or, more likely, he assumed, the slight chill in the room, so he rhythmically stroked her bare arms to warm them, jostling her a little.
"All right, sweetheart…?"
Now she eyed askance his hands on her arms and the bruise she had forgiven, and confessed with a trace of anxiety,
"I…ought to tell you —remind you, Christopher — I haven't much experience…"
Foyle's response was to crinkle a fond, indulgent smile and tip up her chin with a curled forefinger.
Elizabeth instantly felt vulnerable, young, and callow — so unlike her capable, professional, and confident self.
She pulled away and watched him with uneasy, questioning eyes.
Foyle registered the sudden change in her expression and, in some consternation, he dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back.
"Ssorry, that, um, was…inappropriate. …Can see that."
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and let him stew for a moment.
"Emm… my late wife…was…s-several years younger than me…"
"I'm younger than you…" she countered in a quiet voice.
"Ye— …D-different, um, stage of life…"
If he'd had a shirt on he'd have run a finger under his collar.
"That's right." She encouraged him with a slow nod.
Foyle felt rather like he was being schooled, and that he deserved it. He appealed to her with wide open eyes,
"Let's…um, f-figure this out…together…?"
Satisfied she'd made her point, and that he had taken it, Elizabeth relented,
"Yes…Let's. Thank you, darling."
She took a step forward, kissed him and stroked his bristled cheek with her thumb,
"I'm…inexperienced, Christopher, not an 'innocent'…"
"I…understand." His chin made an uphill climb and downhill descent over the two words. With a wince he confessed,
"…Been, em, quite a long time for me…"
Her eyebrow arched sceptically, but not without sympathy,
"No love affairs…? In—" she calculated, "…fifteen years…?"
Foyle opened his mouth, closed it, then made a pained though noncommittal moue, which might have meant yes or no, but she wouldn't press him on that.
With an affectionate half-smile, and only half joking, Elizabeth demanded,
"Show me what you know, then…"
Foyle's brows rose and he chuckled, closing his eyes,
"Fairly sure I can remember what to do…"
Placing his hands lightly on her shoulders he petitioned her lips for entry, which she granted. But then with another thought he broke off the kiss to say,
"Elizabeth, …often been told, when dealing with superiors, I'm difficult to manage —won't be managed, but…um…," the corner of his mouth turned up, "…entirely different on the home front…"
Her eyes lit with amusement, perhaps even relief, and she stroked his furred chest,
"…I like the sound of that."
Resuming the kiss, he caressed her hair, gently removed the few hairpins, and loosened her soft golden waves to fall around her neck.
She murmured,
"Nonetheless, …you're in the lead, at the moment."
"Oh, um, we still playing this game…?"
"Mm-hmm."
A waggish twinkle of the eye preceded a suave smile,
"Wull…wouldn't want to tread on your toes…"
Elizabeth's chin went up and a dangerous little crease formed between her eyebrows,
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Foyle tilted his head to the side and rolled his eyes downward indicating her silk-stockinged feet and his own sturdy leather shoes.
She looked down.
"Oh!"
She laughed, shut her eyes and covered her face with a hand, embarrassed that he'd so easily tricked her into a prickly reaction.
Chuckling as well, he soothed her with a loving kiss on the temple.
"…Seems we're not on an equal footing. Need to remedy that."
She watched him, her heart swelling with admiration, as Christopher sat down on the edge of the bed. He removed his brogues and socks, sliding them under the bedstead.
After a moment's hesitation, Elizabeth sat down beside him, her lively expression fading to a sober one, hands pressed together on her lap.
They turned to each other, knees touching, and he put his right hand over both of hers.
"Christopher?"
"Hmm?"
"I have a confession… I need to tell you something…"
"Thought you might."
"Did you?"
"Mmh."
He lifted his arm to encircle her waist and rested the side of his head against hers.
"…Confessions…between lovers…are best made in bed?"
A nervous smile,
"…Lovers? We…haven't made love yet."
"Mm-minor detail. C'mon then, let's do whatever we need to do, and we'll meet here, …under the covers?"
While he waited for her, brooding a little over what her confession might involve, Foyle reassured himself that their slow progress towards intimacy was to be expected between mature adults with complex personal histories — hers rather more complex than his.
However, he recalled her earlier remark about wanting a long, proper courtship, and worried that he had been too hasty in suggesting the Special License. Was he pressuring her? He thought not, but did she feel pressured? She had invited him in, but had she perhaps changed her mind? For whatever reason, could they take a step back from this without feeling a sense of failure?
Or was it simply this confession that they needed to get past before they could move forward? He would have to wait and see.
Foyle had hopes that they would find their way.
Meanwhile, he gathered their strewn clothing from the floor and piled it all onto the overburdened chair, as a good house guest. He got the fire going in the grate, fetched his suitcase from the landing, donned his dressing gown and removed the last of his clothes, then stood ready with his travel kit.
Foyle looked around at the spacious bedroom — it was larger than his own at home — noting the elegant mirrored dressing table near the window, with its small orderly display of cosmetics, creams and glinting perfume bottles, and a fine jewellery box. The furnishings were attractive and not overly feminine, the furniture solid and practical, in what he recognised as an Art Deco style.
He saw on the far nightstand a small stack of books with titles in English, French and another language he couldn't identify in the low lamplight. It was a very comfortable bedroom — and home — that spoke of an established and settled life. He wondered if Elizabeth could, or would really want to, adjust to sharing it, and he felt the outcome of tonight's endeavour was far from certain.
Soon enough they traded places, pausing to kiss as they passed each other in the bedroom doorway. Elizabeth had brushed out her hair, removed her makeup, and carried something in a colourful brocade over her arm.
In the bathroom Foyle washed and refreshed himself, brushed his teeth, but decided against shaving as Elizabeth seemed to enjoy the whiskers. He hunted in the cupboard for a well worn towel and brought it with him.
Returning to the bedroom, he asked,
"Door open or closed, love?"
"Oh — open just a little, thanks. For air circulation. And thank you for doing the fire…"
"Pleasure."
He quickly shed his robe, dropped the towel on top of it, and then a naked Christopher slipped into the bed. He lay down on his left side, adjusted the pillow under his head, and gave her his full attention.
Elizabeth, he saw, had drawn the bed sheet up and tight across her breasts. She lay on her side facing him, head resting on her folded arm on the pillow. Her other hand was curled around the base of her throat. He thought he'd best not reach for it, or attempt to hold it until he saw that would be welcome.
She spoke up quietly,
"As I said, I've not had much experience… and, chances are…m-most likely…I'm still, em…"
She stared meaningfully across at him.
"Ah. I see…" He lifted his brows in polite interest. It was the first time he'd ever heard her stumble over a word.
"…There's a reason for that."
Now she studied his face and saw only kindness and patience. After a pause to rouse her courage, she told him,
"My…only lover… was another woman. We were young undergraduates together, living in the same college for a year..."
Christopher blinked twice, rolled carefully onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Elizabeth felt his retreat from her, lowered her eyes, and compressed her lips a moment before she continued,
"I was naïve, of a scholarly mind, and hadn't wanted the attention of young men. Neither had she. …Nor had many of us in our college — we wanted our degrees, not children. However, at the end of that year…I found…it wasn't for me. I realised…I wasn't —I'm not— really…of that inclination."
She glanced cautiously up at him,
"Everyone makes assumptions about women who are ambitious for a career — I think perhaps I had, too…, about myself…, at that young age..."
She smiled indulgently, inwardly, as Christopher wasn't looking at her.
Then she went on in a spirit of full transparency,
"I ought to say, however, that she came into my life again in '44. I was desperately lonely, isolated, and she…was so kind. As a friend… she helped me through the most painful months after I'd learned of Tom's death."
Elizabeth watched his thoughtful, unreadable profile — he'd brought a hand up to stroke his chin — half expecting to see him abruptly get out of the bed. Even prepared herself to see him go.
Instead, surprising her — again reassuring her — he asked softly,
"What was your friend's name?"
"Clara."
"And…where is Clara, now?"
"Still at Oxford. She's Vice Principal of…, well, one of the women's colleges. We meet occasionally for a luncheon or supper date, to catch up, simply as friends. …She's long had someone else in her life."
Christopher nodded, signalling his acceptance of the information, then turned to look into her eyes.
"Thank you…for telling me this. Very glad to know…that your past…isn't littered with broken relationships." He blinked a little smile at her. "Quite the opposite."
After a pause he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and confirmed,
"Elizabeth…you've never known— made love…with a man?"
"No. Not long after Clara, I was married and…faithful to Tom."
Elizabeth lowered her gaze and ventured,
"Would you like…to be my first, Christopher?"
His eyebrows — and other parts — rose in response,
"Wull, as I said in the car…" he shifted onto his elbow to face her again, offering his right hand palm-up on the mattress between them, and locked eyes with hers,
"…I would like. An…absolute privilege, Elizabeth."
Her face glowed with relief and pleasure, and she propped herself on her elbow, mirroring his pose.
Again he confirmed with her,
"You wouldn't prefer to wait…until our marriage is officially registered?"
"Christopher. As I said in the car…"
She placed her left hand in his, and gave him a hopeful smile,
"…conscience clear on that point."
He brought that hand to his lips,
"Without my ring on your…? —Oh."
And at that moment he saw her finger was indeed bare, though there was the indentation of the ring she had undoubtedly twisted off in the car as he'd driven her home. In the course of this very long day, he now understood, she had come to terms with the facts of Tom's death four years ago, made peace with herself, and — far from fretting over it, as he'd thought — had definitely decided on her new commitment to him.
He chided himself for not noticing, and bent his brows over shining, grateful eyes.
Elizabeth nodded, her expression bright,
"I'll trust…that we'll see to that tomorrow."
"We will."
He squeezed her fingers,
"You are…um…keen…, though, sweetheart?"
"A little nervous…, and relying on your patience, and kindness…," she laid her hand over his heart, "…but very, Christopher."
His smile was gentle,
"Glad to know it."
They kissed, somewhat more chastely now, and drew together under the sheet to fully embrace. Elizabeth caressed his shoulder and furred chest. Christopher glided his hand down her back, over the valley of her waist and the rise of her hip, registering for the first time the taut strength and firmness of her whole body — an unbidden image of a Thoroughbred racehorse popped into his mind. …As well as some questions as to his own present 'handling' skills. It really had been…quite a long time.
However, her soft fingers were exploring further down along his flank, awakening and rekindling his body's desires.
Christopher was now very aware of his responsibility for what they were about to do — what he was about to do. He didn't want to make another mistake with Elizabeth. She was a woman of substance, of brains and beauty. …And there had been too many apologies between them already.
So he remembered to ask,
"Darling? W-would you prefer that I use…em…a french letter?"
Elizabeth blushed, for a number of reasons, admitting in a quiet voice,
"I'm fairly certain I'm past that particular danger…"
He bit his inside lower lip,
"Iff… we were to find you're not? Would it be…a catastrophe? For your career? For…your health?"
Astonished at his direct and frank consideration, she pulled back, and again folded an arm under her head to regard him seriously.
"My goodness. …Well, my first feeling…at the thought of the possibility…is…pure joy."
She beamed at the idea.
Christopher pressed his lips into a fond, inverted smile, until he saw her radiant expression dimmed.
"Your…second feeling?"
Her brows angled with worry,
"Fear. A child…would be a complete upheaval. …I have no idea how a pregnancy would affect my health. And, …motherhood? I don't know…if I could adjust."
Christopher exhaled a slow breath, mentally thanking the gods he had asked.
"Wull, it's my experience that there's…no choice other than to adjust, once the little bundle arrives. So…pr'haps it's best if I, er…"
He pushed himself up on one arm, ready to fetch the item from the pocket of his robe, but Elizabeth arrested him with a hand on his shoulder.
"W-wait. Let me think." She drew back her hand and pressed the side of a knuckle to her lips.
"Of course."
Surprised and curious, he subsided onto his elbow, and reached across to caress her bare upper arm.
"Well, I mean, it's not very likely to happen, given my age. If it did…I'd lose my position at the College."
He nodded, looking suitably concerned.
Elizabeth rolled onto her back, capturing his hand and weaving her elegant fingers with his as she frowned at the ceiling.
"On the other hand, Christopher, it's become depressingly clear that I may never get…an associate professorship, let alone a full professorship. In the past year I've seen three younger male candidates awarded positions I was in the running for, and to be entirely honest, I'm…weary of the b—" she glanced at him, then chose another word, "…balivernes."
"Hmmm. Is there any way I can help?"
"What do you mean?"
Her expression brightened with an irreverent idea,
"—Have Valentine assassinate my rivals?"
"That's a good thought, but no…" He answered evenly.
"No, em, understand there's a great deal of pressure, in academia, to, er, 'publish or perish'? Could I help with your research…or writing?"
Intrigued, she considered his suggestion.
"As…my assistant?"
"Unofficially. Shouldn't rely on my two-finger typing."
She gave him an amused look, but wondered,
"What of your own work? Will you stay on with the Security Service?"
"Not if I can help it." He grimaced at the thought. "No, think I'm free to leave.
And, em, y-you should know that I have my police pension, some savings, my house in Hastings, and… a considerable number of unused ration points."
He finished with a crooked smile.
Her brows rose over a little grin, impressed again at his practical candour. Cradling his forearm between both of hers, Elizabeth pondered his offer of help, oblivious of the effect her breasts also cradling his arm was having on his focus.
"It has been some time since I've had an article accepted for publication. …I had thought— well, I would like— to try to write Tom's book for him. …And I have my own dusty manuscript, awaiting final editing."
"W-what's delayed you?"
He'd managed to take in the sense of her words and ask a rational question, despite glimpses, and the tender sensation, of her creamy breasts.
She sighed,
"Administrative work, the death of poor Professor Knowles, and the sheer number of students. We're all assigned tutorials, but I find I'm asked to pick up more than my fair share of… cancellations… by… colleagues…"
Elizabeth's voice trailed away and she regarded him curiously,
"We…seem to have drifted off-topic."
"Nnothing's off-topic."
He shifted to drop his head onto the pillow, taking back his arm to ease her body a little nearer to his.
"Off-purpose, then?"
She watched the muscles of his arm flexing over her, and glanced up into his eyes as he effortlessly pulled her closer.
"Mmm…our purpose… is to get to know each other, isn't it? No better way than…this." His mouth curved up on one side.
"Naked…in bed…?" She gave him a shy smile and turned towards him.
"And…talking, sweetheart."
Christopher kissed her cheek, then rolled onto his back, making room for her to rest her head on his shoulder. She placed her palm on his chest and he covered her hand with his.
"Pillow talk…, first?"
"W'you seem…undecided. Ambivalent. …Réticent."
She lifted an eyebrow at his tossing in the French word, and he flashed a smile down at her.
"There's no rush."
But he pressed his mouth into a straight line and cast his eyes heavenward.
Elizabeth lay contemplating his words, then abruptly raised her head to object,
"Hold on, I'm not ambivalent about…" she whispered, "…having sex, Christopher!"
He stifled a grin, and threw his hand up with the obvious solution,
"W'then I'll get the—."
Again he half rose from the mattress but she wouldn't be dislodged, stretching her arm across him, so he fell back onto the pillow with a small sigh of exasperation.
"You haven't said how you'd feel about having a child — another child."
His expression softened.
"Delighted. …Would have to get used to people assuming I'm the grandfather, but, er…"
He shifted towards her, gathering her close,
"Be…honoured…to make a family with you, Elizabeth."
Deeply moved, she put her hand on his cheek, met his warm gaze, and kissed him tenderly,
"Then…shall we just…see what happens, darling?"
Christopher inhaled a long breath through his nose, nodding sagely,
"A sound plan for us to begin with."
His expression transformed with a mischievous gleam and he rolled up and over onto his forearms, pressing her onto her back beneath him. He noted happily the thrill in her eyes.
"L-let's review in…three months?" He nibbled at her neck and her left earlobe,
"…Planning Officer Foyle?"
Elizabeth trilled a little laugh, and smiled rapturously up at the ceiling, her fingers playing in the grey curls at the back of his head.
"A book…? Or a baby…?"
Christopher manoeuvred himself down a path of kisses toward her left breast,
"Mm'why not both?"
— — — — — —
The End. Unless I continue writing this. No promises.
N.B. The scene continues in the standalone (M) for Mature version, posted as a separate story. Set your filters and ratings to (All) to find it.
Footnote: 'Salma' is a real perfume, first launched in 1940 in Cairo, and I quite liked the name, but it does not actually contain myrrh. Other Egyptian perfumes of the era do contain myrrh, but the names were less suitable for the story.