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She heard his sleepy laugh rumble through his chest. ‘What a little fox you are, Mrs Britten-Jones. Tell me more. I like to hear your dreams.’

‘Don’t you have any of your own?’ Alex sat up on an elbow to regard him.

He opened his eyes to meet her gaze and shook his head. ‘None. I find I don’t look forward to tomorrow.’

‘How bleak . . . You survived a war, Harry. Please try harder.’

‘I am. After our phone call last evening, it was the first contented night’s sleep I’ve had in years and the only morning I can recall in recent history that I’ve whistled.’ She chuckled. ‘Really, I whistled!’

‘Whatever’s got into you?’ she asked, mockingly.

‘You have. You’re in my head; I can’t shake you.’

‘I don’t want to be shaken out of your mind, Harry. I want to live in here,’ she said, touching his temple, ‘forever . . . your secret lover that you never quite get over.’

‘That’s a deal,’ he murmured and she welcomed his shifting position to deliver a searching kiss that she knew was given to banish their sudden sad exchanged glances.

Harry’s kiss deepened as he shook off his sleepiness and she privately marvelled at the effortless manner in which his passion ignited again. Guilt-ridden thoughts of Matthew simmered around her; Matthew always found ways to divert her advances, usually through laughter. He’d start telling her a long, often convoluted story and then claim that he’d lost the moment or was suddenly desperately tired. ‘Save it for tomorrow’ was his favourite line as he planted a fleeting kiss on her cheek and left her bed to sleep down the hall like an old-fashioned gentleman.

‘I need to look at you,’ she heard distantly and was gently but firmly manoeuvred to sit above him – a fresh and exciting experience for her. As Harry’s hands reached around her buttocks, all thoughts of cool, detached Matthew were scorched away by the heat of Harry’s desire, which turned her mind empty of everything but this new, deeply intimate sensation that appeared to give her control over him. Harry helplessly closed his eyes, his back arching as he let out a groan that aroused her fully to share this next few moments – it was theirs for no one else to trespass upon. Harry was surrendering to her and as her mounting need began to reach further, higher once again, it felt as though invisible bonds were being loosened.

When exquisite release shuddered through them, whatever had held her back in life seemed to break clean and Alex felt a sense of epiphany . . . of power. Yes, that was what it was, she realised, her breathing slowing.

It was as though Harry could hear those thoughts. ‘Look at what you do to me,’ he accused, smiling, eyes still closed.

‘What I do?’

‘You weaken me,’ he continued.

She grinned, enjoying this reveal, this arrival of her own sense of control. Suddenly the notion that Matthew manipulated the strings of where they lived, where they went, who they entertained, even what she wore, settled like a hard pit in her belly. His control came as suggestions or often a compliment – ‘You are a picture in blue, my darling. Always wear it’ – and yet there she was living a life of obedience without fully realising it.

‘What are you thinking?’ Harry suddenly asked. ‘You’re frowning.’

‘That I wish we never had to leave this cottage, that it was ours and we lived a simple life here.’

He sat up to kiss her gently. ‘A delicious thought.’

‘Would you try to control me, Harry . . . if we were together, I mean?’

‘Control? That’s a harsh word. No, I don’t believe I could control you, nor would I want to. I like you like this: hair long and loose, a temptress who has me weak for her, who can feed me chocolate, wear sexy knickers, share pots of tea, drive around the countryside.’

‘Ride a horse,’ she added.

‘And make love so sweet I am helpless.’

‘Mmm,’ she said, lying down beside him again. ‘So, why are you like this, then, while other men want us to do what we’re told?’

‘Any man who thinks he has control over a beautiful and intelligent woman is fooling himself. She owns him.’

‘Even if she’s poor?’

‘Well, being poor doesn’t stop her being street smart or wily. She can still make strong decisions to improve herself and feel she’s carving her path.’

‘I love that you believe that.’

He shrugged, clearly not interested in having a political discussion in bed, but she was feeling galvanised, whether it was from a sexual awakening that had long been missing or the revelation that the old Alex Frobisher was a new woman from today.

How would this affect her life from here on? It was all very well to feel strong now, lying with a man filled with empathy and love for her. How would she be tomorrow when he was gone?