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Only You	By : Hazeleyed Category: 1 through F > Foyle's War Views: 6319 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Foyles War, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Disclaimer: Foyle’s War is a copyright product created by Anthony Horrowitz, used here for entertainment only, no profit made.

Title: Only You, chapter 6

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: 16+ for mild sexual references.

A/N: Sam/Foyle fic. Thank you for your patience, RL very busy!! Will try harder J

                                 Only you    Chapter 6

“How is yours?”

Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle’s polite enquiry snapped Sam out of her daydream. She looked down at her plate to find half of her meal gone but she had no memory of eating it. She looked across the small dining table and smiled ruefully.

“Very good, like all of their meals have been.”

As this was only Foyle’s second meal downstairs in the dining room since he had woken up from a bout of ‘flu three days earlier, he had not really eaten enough to form an opinion, however, what he had managed to eat had been well cooked and flavoursome. Although his question had been a genuine enquiry, it had also been of use to bring Sam back from wherever she had been mentally languishing for the last ten minutes.

He was concerned about Sam’s state of mind. He was used – now - to her keen enquiring mind and her lively chatter about any subject, so her current reticence was quite out of character. Her lack of involvement in the contents of her plate was unheard of. Sam loved her food.

He waited for further comment, but none was forthcoming. They ate in silence for a few more minutes and Foyle’s concern grew.

“Are you…er…feeling all right?”

Sam looked up from the remains of her meal, and gave a quick nod.

“Yes, thank you.”

Not ‘tickety-boo’ then, umm?

Foyle’s single raised eyebrow questioned the veracity of her comment.

His driver read him well enough – but ignored the signs.

“Did you sleep well?”

Knowing the question was a diversion, Foyle replied anyway.

“Yep, very well, in spite all the sleep I’ve had this week.”

“Good.”

They finished their meal in silence, with Foyle mulling over the possibilities of what was wrong with Sam. He was reluctant to probe too deeply into her affairs, but he was concerned. He wondered if she were coming down with the ‘flu, too.

“If you are feeling up to it, I think that we should be getting back to Hastings.”

Sam looked up quickly this time. Foyle read a mixture of emotions on her face; an odd combination of relief and disappointment, with a touch of weariness thrown in.

Sam looked back down at her plate and straightened the already tidy cutlery.

“If you are feeling well enough to travel, then, yes, we should get back. Absolutely.”

Foyle contemplated the top of Sam’s head for a moment longer, and then looked out of the window of the pub. It was not yet dark and the blackout curtains were still open, but it would be very late before they reached Hastings, even if they left now.

“In that case, we can leave in the morning. I don’t think there is any point to travelling at night unless we have to. I’ll telephone Milner tomorrow and let him know that we’ll be back late afternoon.”

Sam’s fingers stilled on her knife and fork.

“He said yesterday that he’s looking forward to having you back.”

Foyle regarded her.

“You’ll be happy to get back, I expect. Away from shared accommodation and looking after the infirm.”

He was pleased to see the glimmer of a smile surface.

“Oh, it’s not been so bad. At least you don’t snore.”

One side of Foyle’s mouth lifted.

“Glad to hear it.”

After they left the dining room, Sam went up to the room to start packing, and Foyle went to see Mrs Flack about settling the bill.

Despite Foyle’s comment about the weight of her suitcase earlier in the week, Sam knew that it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to pack as neither of them had brought much with them. However, she had only just placed her case on the bed and opened it when Foyle entered the room.

“Gosh, you were quick.”

“Umm. Mrs Flack is making up the bill. She…er…said to remind you that you had something drying in the kitchen?”

Both of Foyle’s eyebrows were up with curiosity, but he wasn’t going to ask the obvious question.

Sam straightened up from her suitcase.

“Oh, I nearly forgot! I’ll go and get it now…won’t be a tick.”

Foyle was left alone. He looked around the now very familiar room with a sense of regret. He had quickly adapted to having someone share a bed with him again after all these years, and he was sorry in many respects that it would end after tonight. He sighed, then moved to pull his case out from under the bed; as he did so he noticed something pale lying beside it. Pulling it out, he recognised the cream coloured garment; Foyle’s stomach did an unexpected flip.

It was Sam’s nightgown.

Why this should cause him concern, he didn’t know, but it did. As he held it in his hands he noticed that it was ripped along one of the side seams. Immediately an image came to mind and it wasn’t pleasant; Sam, wearing the nightdress, and someone removing it hastily, carelessly.

Against her wishes?

Foyle shook his head to dismiss the image; it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. He should stop being a detective every moment of the day. Unless something had happened to Sam while he was unconscious, there would have been no opportunity for anyone to attack her whilst she was wearing her nightclothes. She had been with him the whole time. In fact, now he thought about it, their first night here was the only time he could recall her wearing the silk at all. His mind dutifully supplied the expression on Mrs Flack’s face as she had viewed the two of them floundering – well, to be fair, only he had been floundering, but -

“What are you doing?”

Sam’s quiet question made Foyle look up in surprise; he had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard her return. He looked at her, then at the garment that he still held. For some reason he felt guilty.

“I’m sorry; I just found this on the floor, under the bed.”

When he looked up again, Sam was looking at his hands. Her fleeting expression of longing gave him pause, but the look was gone in an instant and Sam was herself again as she hung up her clean shirt.

“I wondered what had happened to it. It was not terribly practical for sleeping in anyway; I daresay I could make two new outfits with all that material.”

The first thought in Foyle’s head was that it would be a shame to cut it up, but he remained silent as Sam took the gown from him and carefully folded it before placing it in her suitcase.

The remainder of the packing was completed in a companionable silence, though Foyle was aware that Sam seemed preoccupied.

Despite the agreement with herself about Foyle, Sam couldn’t help going over The Night again. Seeing him hold the silk reminded her of his sensuous touch; the way his hands had moved over her skin, stirring such feelings in her. The sight of the nightdress had brought back – and now always would – memories of the only time she had worn it. The torn seam and its eventual repair would always make her think of the way that she had stripped it off with such careless abandon. Her body pulsed with pleasure at the memory and she was sure that she must look flushed. As she crossed to the door she uttered the first thing that came into her head.

“Cup of tea? I’m parched.”

Foyle glanced at his watch in surprise; it had only been fifteen minutes since they had eaten.

“Er…not for me, thank you. You go ahead, I’ll see you later.”

The door had closed almost before Foyle had finished speaking, leaving him to wonder what had just happened. Out of habit, he smoothed a hand over his tie and waistcoat as he contemplated Sam’s departure.

Sam didn’t go for a pot of tea. Instead, before it got completely dark she took a quick look at the Wolseley to make sure that it was shipshape for the journey back to Hastings the following day. The chilled atmosphere outside soon took the flush from her cheeks and she was back inside within a few minutes.

Just as she was trying to decide what to do until bedtime, one of the other guests tried to talk her into making up a fourth for bridge. Sam’s face fell; she was not terribly good at the game despite her mother’s persistence, but when she attempted to tell Mrs. Bell this fact, she was overruled.

“Nonsense my dear, I’m sure you’ll be -”

“Sam?”

Despite her speedy departure earlier, Foyle’s voice behind her was a welcome interruption for Sam and it showed in her face as she turned to him.

“Christopher, there you are! I was just telling Mrs Bell how terrible I am at bridge, but I’m afraid she doesn’t believe me.”

Foyle correctly read the ‘get me out of this’ expression on her face. He smiled disarmingly at the older woman and her two female companions.

“For the daughter of a vicar, it was a great shock to me when I discovered Sam’s complete inability to concentrate on the cards for more than a few minutes at a time; complete shock. Terrible. All I could think was ‘thank goodness she can cook’.”

Foyle smoothly took Sam by the arm and guided her away from the stunned Mrs Bell. One of her friends pulled at her arm and Foyle was sure that he overheard the word ‘honeymoon’ in whatever was being said. He glanced at Sam, hoping that she hadn’t noticed.

She was smiling.

“You are a rotter you know; she now thinks that I’m hopeless and you’re only interested in my cooking ability.”

Foyle was still holding her arm and Sam showed no inclination to pull away. He wondered if she really had no idea that the three ladies probably thought the last thing he was interested in was her ability to cook. He gave her a sideways glance and his half-smile.

“Good job she doesn’t know that you can only do ‘coq au vin’ then, isn’t it?”

Although pleased to see Sam’s trademark grin at last, Foyle wondered at her pink cheeks.

Sam wasn’t going to tell him anytime soon that ‘all coq and no vin’ had popped straight into her head.

X X X X

In the end they spent a pleasant evening in the snug, sitting near the fire and simply talking. There was no whisky to be had, but Foyle could nurse a pint with the best of them and if Sam’s port and lemon was more lemon than port, well, there was a war on.

They went up to the room well before time was called; Foyle was still fatigued from his illness and Sam was not going to sit downstairs in the bar by herself, even if Foyle would have let her.

The two of them changed for bed, Foyle back in his own freshly laundered pyjamas, but Sam still in the borrowed nightshirt. They talked – consciously or otherwise – about ‘safe’ subjects; the recent penny increase on the price of a pound of sugar, making it fourpence ha’penny was upsetting the desk sergeant back home – not that you could get a pound of sugar anyway, but it was the principal of the matter. The new utility clothing had turned out better than anticipated, mainly because eight of the leading dress designers had contributed ideas to the Board of Trade, including, as Sam pointed out, the Royal Family’s two favourite designers, Norman Hartnell and Hardy Amies.

Sam rattled on, more like her old self, and although ordinarily Foyle would probably have drifted away mentally, he found himself listening to the comforting ebb and flow of her voice around him as he lay, propped up on a pillow, waiting for her to run out of steam. As if she ever would.

“What’s so funny?”

Foyle looked up, a picture of innocence, as Sam slid into bed beside him.

“Mmmn? Oh, nothing, just…er…waiting for you to get comfortable before I turn out the light.”

Sam looked at him, trying to judge his expression; there was definitely a gleam in his eyes. Something had amused him, but he was obviously not going to spill the beans. She sighed inwardly. This was the most relaxed that she – they – had been since he had woken up in the middle of the night and she really wanted to ask him what was going on between them. Just lying here next to him was causing all sorts of tingly goings-on again. It just wasn’t fair. If only there was a way to communicate with him. She smiled.

“All right then, Christopher. I’m ready when you are.”

Foyle looked at her, wondering at her inflection; he had never heard his Christian name purred quite like that. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn she was flirting with him. To his ear she had sounded quite, well… suggestive.

He was obviously more sick than he thought.

Sam’s steady gaze remained on him. Foyle had been stared at by the best and worst of any bunch of villains, but none of them had a patch on Sam for getting under his skin. He quickly turned off the light before she could read any of the secrets behind his eyes.

The darkness hid more than Foyle’s discomfort; it hid Sam’s amusement too. She was getting through to him, she knew it.

“’Night, Christopher.”

Foyle worried silently at his lip. He frowned.

What wouldn’t he give to hear her say that every night?

“’Night, Sam.”

He never felt less like sleep.

X X X X

Midnight came and went with Foyle exhausted but wide awake. His left palm rested on his forehead and he could feel the deep ridges of his furrowed brow.

He had been tossing and turning for an age. He couldn’t seem to switch off, but his thoughts had settled into a peculiar sort of monomania – the same couple of sentences kept repeating through his mind.

   He was in his office back when Sam had volunteered to go undercover as a tanker driver at a petrol depot; or rather, it had been just before she had put herself forward for the task. He and Milner had been discussing which policeman they could spare to send on the job, and Sam had asked what the problem was.

He had looked up at her.

‘We’re seriously short of men.’

Her prompt response had startled him.

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

Sam had ended the sentence with a resigned little ‘huff’ of amusement, leaving Foyle and Milner looking at each other in surprise.

Now he couldn’t get the words out of his head. He wondered if his brain was trying to tell him that Sam was worldlier than he gave her credit for.

Foyle turned over onto his right side, but this left him facing the subject of his turmoil. Sam was lying on her left side, facing him. Less than twelve inches separated them, but it might as well have been a mile.

He had accepted some time ago that his affections were engaged with his driver. She was an attractive young woman with an enquiring mind and a sunny disposition. She had an overactive imagination, but that was a charming quirk of her character rather than a fault. It was perfectly logical that he would find her appealing.

   That he also desired her was a disadvantage, one that could lead to trouble, but he had used his maturity to keep a check on his behaviour. He was working on the principle of ‘half a loaf’ being better than none. If he kept quiet, he would keep his half loaf – Sam would continue to be his driver. If he declared himself and she turned him down – as, indeed, she had every right to do – then he would have nothing, because she would ask for a transfer.

But the little optimist in the back of his head was muttering again;

‘We’re seriously short of men.’

With Sam’s wonderfully dry response.

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

Was Sam sufficiently short of eligible men to consider a more mature applicant?

When Foyle finally managed to drift off to sleep, it was in the middle of one of his less than successful approaches.

This made him all the more disconcerted when he woke up to find Sam plastered to his side, her head in the crook of his arm, and her hand on his chest.

In addition to the confusion caused by her proximity, a single word from Sam’s lips stopped the breath in his chest.

Darling.

Foyle froze.

What the hell was going on?

Sam’s murmured greeting had no plausible explanation that he could think of. Had she been dreaming? Or was he?

Foyle forced himself to remain silent. The last thing he needed was for her to wake up and notice the state he was in; his mind may not have acknowledged Sam at his side, but his body was more than aware of the whole of hers against him. To speak now and be noticed would be the height of embarrassment for him; God knows what it would do to her.

With no idea what the time was, Foyle thought it felt like early morning rather than the middle of the night. With the blackout still in place it was impossible to tell if it was light yet, and he couldn’t reach his watch without disturbing Sam.

After a few minutes it became obvious that even the threat of humiliation was not diminishing his arousal. He tried to ease away from Sam, but she shifted closer and muttered something, so he stopped moving.

Five minutes crawled past.

Just as Foyle had finally started to relax, the hand on his chest slipped under the edge of his pyjama jacket and started to move down towards his waist.

Discovery be damned; he clamped his left hand down on Sam’s, trapping her firmly.

What was she thinking?

Sam’s foot began to slide up Foyle’s right leg, making her knee…

Bloody Hell!

“Sam? Sam, wake up!”

Sam lifted her head, charmingly bleary eyed.

“Mmm?”

She blinked once, twice. She looked at her trapped hand, and then at Foyle. She frowned in puzzlement.

“Wuh…why are you holding my hand?”

Foyle’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know whether to be indignant or laugh at the irony.

“Me? Holding your hand? I am not, I’m -”

It belatedly occurred to him that he was in fact holding her hand.

Sam looked innocently perplexed; it was a work of art.

“No? What’s that then? Four fingers, one thumb. Looks like a holding sort of hand to me.”

“But you were…”

Foyle trailed off. There was no way out of this with any dignity. He lifted his hand to release her, but to his surprise Sam didn’t move away. She gave a little smirk instead.

“I didn’t say that I minded. I just didn’t expect it.”

Foyle looked as if he had been hit with a wet fish. Stunned as a mullet.

“W…what?”

Sam savoured the rare moment of having one over on the boss. It wasn’t often that she was able to do that, and it gave her time to recover from the pleasant surprise of waking up and finding herself pressed up against him. She had been enjoying a rather wonderful dream too, more’s the pity.

While Foyle was still in shock, Sam forced herself to gently disengage from their close embrace. It was the last thing that she wanted to do, but he looked so distressed that she actually felt sorry for him.

Before completely pulling away from him however, she paused. Suddenly serious, she looked at Foyle, searching for some glimmer of emotional recognition. He still appeared distressed, but a new wariness had entered his expression when she stopped moving.

A sudden recklessness seized Sam; a carpe diem sort of moment.

“Aren’t you curious?”

Despite the risk of repeating himself, Foyle did just that.

“What?”

Gathering all her courage together, Sam strove for nonchalance.

“Well, aren’t you curious at all? I mean, I’m not Rita Hayworth, but I’m not Fatty Arbuckle either. Due to circumstances beyond our control we’ve been sharing this bed for a week; okay, I admit that for half of it you were unconscious, but even so, I don’t know whether to be flattered or upset that you haven’t…that you didn’t want…to…to, well, you’ve been a perfect gentleman. It’s been quite…quite…”

Foyle’s mood had rapidly moved from shock to amusement, skipping briefly through dismay and awkwardness with arousal underlying all else. How could the dear girl possibly think that he wasn’t interested, even if that was exactly the intention he sought to convey?

“Respectful?”

Sam pulled a face to indicate that Foyle hadn’t made a successful stab at finishing her sentence.

“No…quite…”

“Proper?”

Sam frowned, searching for the exact word she wanted.

“No…quite…um…”

“Appropriate?”

“No!”

“What, then?”

“Insulting.”

Sam waited for his reaction with some trepidation. Having started down this road with her usual impulsive leap, she was now debating the wisdom of the expression ‘look before you leap’.

Foyle rubbed his forehead with his left hand. Sam had seen him do it on other occasions when he needed to think.

“Let me get this straight. Because I have given you the respect that you are due and not made any inappropriate advances, you feel insulted?”

“Exactly.”

Sam’s expression made Foyle feel like a bright but confused schoolboy.

“Well, try not to feel too insulted by my respect. I’m sure that there will be plenty of young men who would be willing to try to be inappropriate with you in the right circumstances and with your consent.”

“That makes me sound a little fresh, if not ‘fast’. Do you think that I’m that sort of girl, just because I wondered if you were curious?”

Foyle’s face had ‘I can’t win’ written all over it.

“N…no, no, not at all; I’m trying -”

“I’ll say.”

The tart interjection was overridden.

“- trying to say that I think you are…”

Foyle cleared his throat nervously, aware that he was on dangerous ground.

“…a not unattractive young woman, who would have many admirers, if you so chose.”

Sam hid her smile, taking pleasure from teasing Foyle.

“Not unattractive? So you have given it some thought?”

Foyle rubbed his forehead again. How the dickens had he got into this?

“Umm…”

“Thinking about me is not the same as curiosity though, is it? I mean, you must think about me because we work together nearly every day, don’t we? But that doesn’t mean that you’re curious about me, does it? After all, I see you all the time and I think about…all sorts of things while I’m driving; I don’t need all my brain to drive -”

“How reassuring.”

“- so it leaves one free to think and to be curious…”

Sam looked at Foyle, her playfulness falling away.

“…and I’m still curious. Aren’t you?”

Foyle was beside himself with curiosity but made no indication of it. This was a bizarre conversation to be having, but this whole situation was bizarre. He pulled a face; the upside down ‘U’ mouth, the raised eyebrows, combined with a slight shrug.

“Well, I’m a policeman. Curiosity is the nature of the beast, without it I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?”

Propped up on her left elbow, her head resting on her palm, Sam’s body was still touching Foyle’s leg from the hip down, and his arm was still under her torso. She thought how revealing it was that Christopher hadn’t moved away from her. Everywhere that they were touching tingled and she had to force herself to concentrate.

“That’s inquisitiveness; please answer my question, it’s important.”

Sam’s earnest expression betrayed her youth, as if Foyle needed any reminder. He wanted to answer her question truthfully but knew that he should not encourage her.

“Same thing, different word. No, I can’t answer your question.”

Foyle did not avoid her gaze and she didn’t flinch.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The muscles in Foyle’s face shifted minutely.

“Either way, you have your answer.”

Completely distracted, Sam marvelled at the transformation in his demeanour from the man she had woken up with to her superior officer. She felt quite undressed, and not in a good way.

“How can you do that? How can you be my friend Christopher one minute, then turn into my boss? That’s not fair.”

Both of Foyle’s eyebrows shot upwards; he hadn’t expected her to recover and retaliate so quickly. What was that quote about the best defence being an attack through forward enemy lines?

Suddenly straightening her left arm, Sam propped herself up, pulling away from the contact with him. Having achieved what he set out to do, Foyle found himself missing their connection.

Sam glared at him, but with a curiously touching dignity.

“I’m sorry; you’re quite right, I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”

It would have been perfect if Sam had just left it at that, but being her, she just had to gild the lily.

“I’m sorry that sharing a bed with you made me think that I could ask you something personal just because I was curious about it. Of course you couldn’t possibly have thought about kissing me, whether or not you think I’m attractive. You’re a mature, sensible man, a good and proper policeman, and I’m sure it’s never crossed your mind to think how easy it would be just to lean over such a small distance to satisfy a curiosity that you don’t have in the first place.”

By accident or design - he wasn’t sure which - Sam had managed to make Foyle feel like a mean old man totally lacking any interest in sex. In the back of his mind he was aware that this was very possibly a fair assessment, but part of him still felt that his masculinity had been impugned. What did this chit of a girl know about the real him?

Unfortunately, Sam had only paused for breath.

“Of course it means nothing that I was worried sick that you wouldn’t get better, and that made me think of all the things that I hadn’t said that I wished I had, and all the times I said things that I shouldn’t. That made me think of my father and how upset he was with my moral decline since I’d moved to Hastings; how hard I had to persuade him to let me stay with you; I’d told him that you were quite harmless, and that I really felt that I was doing my bit for the War Effort…”

Foyle frowned; he was almost certain that he was being played – this whole encounter had the same feel as one of Sam’s ploys to get a meal invitation out of him, but despite knowing this he was still beginning to feel annoyed.

Harmless? Sam had told her father that he was quite harmless?

Old, mean, lacking masculinity and now harmless. Could it get any worse?

Sam was winding up, thank God.

“…anyway, once you’d convinced him that I was safe in your company he was all right about things. He would be very reassured at just how safe I am with you, Chris-”

Safe. Now he was safe to be around?

Foyle’s primeval brain surfaced as his annoyance level escalated. Still aroused, the transition to anger was easily achieved. He had a good mind to show her just how safe she was around him.

One second Sam was leaning on her left hand and apologising, the next she was flat on her back with Foyle pressing her into the mattress. She only had a moment to register the exasperated expression on his face before his lips claimed hers.

Finally!

His ability to kiss was every bit as stunning as she remembered. The room retreated as she became caught up in the whirlwind of emotion that she had deliberately brought into being.

Sam didn’t know how much longer she would have been able to keep up the monologue if Foyle hadn’t snapped at last. She had known that it would take quite a lot to provoke him, but she had relied, admittedly unfairly, on the fact that he was still recovering from his illness, coupled with the certainty that he desired her.

What started as a lesson became something else. It was several seconds before Foyle realised that Sam was kissing him back; meeting his anger with her passion and blending it into something more.

As his anger retreated and was replaced by desire, Foyle became far more aware of what was happening. Sam’s lips were soft and yielding, moulded to his as if made just for them alone. His initial grip on her right arm had relaxed enough to feel the soft press of her breast against his wrist. He could feel her hand in the hair at the back of his head and smell the faint trace of perfume on her skin. He moved closer to her, so that his body half-covered Sam; his hips and legs pressed into the blankets bunched between the two of them.

There was an odd sense of familiarity to kissing Sam. She, too, seemed perfectly in tune with him, somehow knowing what he liked.

No longer angry, Foyle knew that despite whatever he felt for Sam, he had to stop right now if he had any chance of living with his conscience later.

Unfortunately he was fighting a losing battle with himself and he allowed himself to savour another deep and satisfying kiss.

Eventually Foyle lifted his head for a moment, the more to savour the vision of Sam with her hair spread across her pillow.

Suddenly he had another picture of Sam in his head, looking very similar to the picture she now presented. Vision Sam was wearing the silk nightdress, one strap down off her shoulder, and her face bore the same expression of longing.

It was a true memory, Foyle was sure of it. He froze, uncertain of what the image meant.

Sam sensed the change in him; she could feel the sudden tension in his muscles under her hands. Her eyes flew to his, saw his shock and confusion and knew what it presaged.

He had remembered, or was very close to doing so.

Sam knew that she was losing him; she could feel his withdrawal both mentally and physically. Without thinking, she pleaded with him.

“No! Please don’t leave!”

It was the worst thing that she could have said.

Grainy pictures like the Pathe News reels flashed jerkily before Foyle’s eyes as he remembered jumbled bits and pieces of what had happened before he had collapsed with the ‘flu.

Sam.

Kisses that scorched his soul.

Sinking into her arms; taking her!

Foyle was horrified.

Dear God, what had he done?!

TBC.
- 5
- 6
- 7
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Only You