Relative Ethics. Caroline Anderson

head in his arms. ‘I never behave like this, and I can’t believe you do either, but I have this overwhelming urge to take you to bed and make love to you until one of us begs for mercy! I’m just not sure I could cope with it yet.’

      Bron took a deep breath. He was right, of course, she didn’t behave like this and never had, either, but what they had was different, special, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. She’d only had one affair before, and that was with someone she’d known for years. It had been a gentle and natural extension of their friendship and respect, and it had fizzled out just as naturally when he’d moved away for promotion; but, in terms of fireworks, already Oliver was winning hands down. If she let him go now, she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.

      ‘I won’t beg for mercy.’

      He lifted his head and gazed at her seriously. ‘Oh, Bron—I’m not interested in a quick roll in the hay.’

      ‘Oh! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…’

      Her confusion must have shown in her face, because he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to make love with you! I’m saying it’s more than that. I think you could come to mean a great deal to me, very easily. I just don’t want to blow my chances with you by pushing you into something you’ll regret later.’

      ‘I would never regret it,’ she said quietly.

      ‘You don’t think you would, but things—people, circumstances—change. Come on, let’s go back to the lecture and put things back into perspective. I don’t think I trust myself to be alone with you when you’re so vulnerable.’

      ‘Oliver! I’m not vulnerable, I’m making a choice.’

      He looked down at her, and shook his head. ‘No, Bron, you have no choice. Where I’m concerned you’re as vulnerable as I am with you. We’re wide open to hurt, and we’ll have to protect each other. God knows, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.’

      He pulled her to her feet, and tucked her into his side for the walk back to the conference-room.

      Jane and Michael were waiting for them, and they sat down just in time as the lecture began again. Bron made a conscious effort to listen, but it wasn’t easy, and she caught Oliver’s rueful grin more than once. He was obviously having the same trouble.

      They broke for tea and stayed on the terrace with the others, and after the evening lecture they got together for a drink and a chat over the day’s notes. Whether it was the atmosphere, or Oliver’s presence, or just the fact that she wasn’t used to it, Bron felt the drinks going to her head and found it harder than ever to concentrate on what they were saying.

      Predictably her notes were sketchy and filled with doodles—her name and Oliver’s, intertwined with love-hearts and arrows and trailing vine leaves. His were almost as bad, except that his doodles were restricted to ‘She loves me, she loves me not’, down the margin to the bottom line, ending with ‘She loves me not’.

      Bron took his notes, drew in another line and wrote, ‘She loves me’, on it, and handed it back, and he gave a startled laugh.

      ‘Goodnight, all,’ he said briefly, grabbed Bron by the hand and towed her out through the french doors into the garden.

      ‘Just what are you trying to do to my blood-pressure?’ he said with a ragged chuckle, and tugged her into his arms to kiss her with all the pent-up emotions of the day. ‘Crazy girl,’ he murmured eventually against her hair, and held her, rocking her gently against his chest while the nightingale sang in the wood and the scent of orange blossom drifted round them in the warm, evening air.

      Then with a sigh he put her from him. ‘Go on, go up to bed while I can still let you go.’ He brushed his lips lightly across hers and, turning her round, he propelled her gently towards the door. ‘Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight. I’ll see you for breakfast.’

      On considerably reluctant feet, Bron forced herself to walk away from him and upstairs.

      The night was predictably sleepless; she lay, her mind filled with thoughts of Oliver, and wondered if he returned her love. How could he not? she thought dreamily, and finally fell asleep as the sun crept over the horizon.

      She was woken abruptly by Oliver pounding on her door.

      ‘Bron? Open up, I’ve got something to show you!’

      What on earth does he want? she wondered, and slid out of bed, her hair tousled, face flushed, eyes half shut. She caught a glimpse of herself on the way to the door, and groaned. She looked a wreck!

      ‘Come in,’ she muttered, and shut the door again behind him.

      He swept her up in his arms and hugged her tight, laughing with delight and something else. She heard the crackle of paper, and then he dumped her on the bed and shoved a letter into her hand.

      Sleepily, she pushed her fingers through her hair to lift it off her face, and dropped her eyes to the letter.

      ‘Oh! You passed your FRCS! Congratulations, Mr Henderson!’

      She flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight. That’s fantastic! We’ll have go to out tonight to celebrate. Oh, you clever man! Oh, well done, darling——’

      His mouth came down hard on hers, and when he released her his face was blazing with pride and happiness.

      ‘I can’t believe it—all that and you, too. I’d better get out of here before I do something crazy. See you downstairs in ten minutes.’

      He winked and left her, and she gathered her scattered wits and washed and dressed in double-quick time.

      The day passed in a whirl of congratulations. Somehow they managed to make some sense of the lectures, but by this time both of them were relying more and more heavily on Jane and Michael to pass on relevant notes during their breaks.

      The other delegates heard about Oliver’s success and, not needing much of an excuse, decided to organise a party for that night.

      Someone produced some disco lights, which were set up in the conference-room, and the chairs were cleared to leave space for dancing. The sound equipment was pressed into service, and a young SHO, who had done time on the hospital radio as a student, agreed to act as DJ. Jane dragged Bronwen upstairs.

      The blue silk,’ she said firmly, thrusting Bron through her bedroom door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour, and you’d better be ready to blow their socks off!’

      Bron laughed and shook her head in despair. ‘OK, OK, the blue silk. See you later.’

      Fifty-five minutes later there was a tap on the door. Bron was sitting at the dressing-table, clad in a tiny pair of midnight-blue silk panties and her make-up, toying with her hair.

      ‘Come in,’ she called, and she heard the door open and shut softly behind her. ‘What do you think, Jane, down or up?’

      ‘Down,’ said a deep voice, and Bron leapt to her feet and spun round, clutching her arms to her chest.

      ‘Oliver! What are you doing in here?’ she squeaked.

      He chuckled. ‘Obeying orders. You said come in.’ He walked towards her and, placing his warm hands on her bare shoulders, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘What are you wearing?’

      ‘Not a lot! Get out so I can get dressed.’

      He grinned. ‘No way. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor——’

      ‘Huh! Anyway, you’re just plain Mr now, Henderson, so you can take yourself off while I finish my preparations.’

      ‘No. Is this the one?’ He held up the mightnight-blue silk dress, and she nodded. ‘Which way round does it go?’

      ‘Oliver!’ Bron tried to sound scandalised. ‘It’s backless!’

      ‘Pity.