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deliberately allowing a sample of cake he’d accepted at the counter to squelch across his perfect teeth and make her laugh in spite of her mood.
    ‘Mm?’ She’d forgotten where they’d been in their conversation.
    ‘I said bed is the best place for us right now.’
    She had to agree. ‘In bed with you is my safe place. Nothing can hurt us there.’
    ‘Hurt us? Oh, Jane. You are being maudlin.’
    ‘I thought I was being romantic.’ She laughed.
    ‘You have nothing in the world to fear.’
    ‘I’ve never worried before,’ she admitted. ‘Until this moment, I’ve never had to consider anyone but myself, because I’venever got serious about anyone. I’ve never really worried about anything much at all.’ She pushed a hand through her dark blonde hair and held it there. ‘Mum and Dad are so strong and generous, and nothing bad has ever happened, if you get my drift.’ He nodded, but she still cast her gaze down. ‘I’ve always felt safe, even when I’ve been travelling the world alone. But suddenly now that I have you in my life, there are fears swirling that I’d never imagined.’
    Was that it? Was she frightened that something might ruin these wonderful feelings of brightness and hope? Did the fear make it impossible for her to embrace those feelings? Or was she avoiding what she was trying to pretend wasn’t there — her reluctance to marry Will?
    ‘Jane,’ he began, full of appeal, ‘nothing’s going to happen to me, to us. We’re forever. Come on, let’s walk off breakfast.’
    She let it go. ‘So, bore me some more about the ley lines. Never let it be said that I was a bad fiancée who didn’t listen attentively.’
    Jane let him talk. He was passionate about his subject and she enjoyed watching his enthusiasm — the way he waved his long-fingered hands around. She blushed as she imagined those same fingers cupping her bottom when she moved above him. She liked his hair and its soft tickle against her naked skin — it was, in fact, the first characteristic she’d noticed about Will Maxwell, when he’d not seen her bending to tie a shoelace and had stumbled over her. His hair was thick and a rich golden colour, and fell in waves that did exactly as they pleased. He’d cut it to meet her parents, hoping to please her. Will preferred it longer and unruly until tufts flicked out behind his ears and around his beautiful oval face, which was currently unshaven and shadowed with dark prickles. She knew women watched him; even the café staff now watched them walk past.
    It was Will’s voice she would choose as her favourite feature of him. Mellow, not pitched too deep and capable ofa deliciously sparkling laugh when she could provoke it. His American accent was addictive and contrasted with her Welsh lilt, which had been overshadowed, but not forgotten, by her years of attending a fine British public school. She could strengthen it as she chose, of course, but then she could also mimic Will’s southern American English, or adopt her cousins’ Cornish brogue with ease, because of a finely tuned ear for language.
    ‘… black lines of negative energy, Curry lines of natural radiation, Hartmann lines of magnetic energy …’ She let his soothing voice warm her, while she wondered which of the energies had aligned to bring him to her. She was twenty-seven, and had begun to believe her sister’s quip that she was a serial lover without the love.
    Finishing her history degree — specialising in late eighteenth century social and cultural life — had been a milestone in her life. She had enjoyed drilling down to understand the social mores of the era, its language and developments. But what was the benefit in knowing that soup was placed at one end of the table and fish at the other, and that custards and vegetables were never placed centrally; or about the introduction of vaccination against smallpox; or that John Wesley founded the Methodists in the late 1730s, and that the Royal Academy