The Englishman's Bride. Sophie Weston

a moment he had a vision of them both swimming, playing out in the bay as she had been doing earlier. It was so clear, that vision. It was as if he had always known there would be this night, this moon, this girl.

      If only—

      Then the accustomed discipline struck. It staked him to the ground like fallen masonry after an earthquake. Remember your duty, his grandfather would have said.

      Duty. Dignity. Appropriate behaviour. Good judgement. Responsibility.

      ‘No,’ he said in a strangled voice.

      ‘But it’s just over there.’

      ‘No.’

      He had better command over his voice now, though he stepped unobtrusively away from her damp body. She was silver in the moonlight.

      All he could think of was that she must not detect the effect she was having on him. That it would spoil a perfect moment.

      ‘I’d better not. I’ve played hooky long enough.’

      She seemed disappointed. Blessings on her beautiful, spontaneous head, thought Philip. She actually wanted him to enjoy himself.

      ‘Not even for five minutes?’ she coaxed, that enchanting catch in her voice making it sound as if she really cared; as if her disappointment was real.

      His head was still whirling. But his self-command was practised and he could switch it on at a moment’s notice.

      ‘Not even for five minutes,’ he said regretfully. ‘In fact, I must go. They’ll come looking for me if I don’t get back.’

      ‘Oh.’ More than disappointed; almost bereft.

      He allowed himself to take her hand. Her fingers were long and slim and surprisingly warm after her swim.

      ‘Anyway, I’ve had my indulgence for the night,’ he said teasingly. ‘I met a water nymph.’

      Her hand twitched in his.

      Philip was annoyed with himself. Now, why did I say that? It makes me sound like an elderly classics master.

      Maybe it was to prove to himself as much as her that he was not an elderly schoolmaster that he forgot about not spoiling the perfect moment. Hardly realising what he was doing, he pulled her towards him.

      He heard her startled breath. He felt smooth shoulders and the damp stuff of her swimsuit over the glorious warmth of breast and hip. He felt bone and muscle and curving flesh. Even then, he might have stepped away.

      But then he felt her response.

      For a tiny second she was his, mouth to fierce mouth.

      Then, like water, she slid out of his arms and dived back into the lagoon, powering away for the open sea.

      Behind him, there were voices.

      ‘Sir Philip? Are you there?’ The minder, slightly ruffled, as if someone had taken him to task.

      ‘Are you all right, sir?’ That was his aide. Presumably the one doing the taking to task.

      And the restaurant manager. ‘Can we seat the guests now, sir? We can start to serve the meal as soon as you like.’

      Responsibility! Here it comes again, thought Philip. Back in the cockpit and off we go for another trip round the same old sticking points.

      But they were his sticking points. And his responsibility.

      He turned and went to do his duty.

      But he sent a last, lingering glance after the silver trail flickering away from him, never to return.