Why had he chased her all over the British Isles? (Well, England and Ireland. Did Ireland count as the British Isles?) Surely he wouldn’t have done that when presumably he could have just gone home to Bridget? Could their night of passion possibly have been more than just amazing sex for him, too?

Ever since she’d worked out, at the festival, that he’d been frantically writing, which was why he’d stopped contacting the outside world, even her, she’d wondered if their subsequent passion was just some sort of release for him, as soldiers high on adrenalin after battle need.

But surely he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to locate her unless she was more than a woman in the right place at the right time? No. He hadn’t just jumped on her, he’d made love to her, tenderly, thoughtfully, taking account of her inexperience. He’d made sure she had a really wonderful time.

She’d blocked a lot of this out of her mind since her meeting with Bridget. She’d made her brain reject the messages her heart might have given her if she’d let it. But now she allowed herself to remember the intimate details; how he’d used his skill and experience to give her pleasure. It made her sigh blissfully but it didn’t help her sleep.

Then she heard a noise at the door. It could have been her father, checking up, or her mother, come down for a motherly chat. But somehow she knew it was Dermot.

‘Hello?’ he whispered.

‘Yes?’ she whispered back.

‘May I come in?’ he asked, still whispering.

‘Yes, but don’t wake my parents. Not that they’re asleep, probably. They’ll be worrying.’

She heard him come in and bring the door to behind him. ‘Will they? Why?’

‘In case you’re doing what you’re doing now!’ She sat up, but she was still encased in the sausage skin.

‘I couldn’t sleep a night under the same roof as you without . . .’ He paused.

Torrid and frantic thoughts of what he might be about to say made her breathing become rapid.

‘What?’ They were already whispering but this was hardly audible. He either heard her or guessed.

‘I had to put my arms round you.’

He scooped her up and enveloped her, pinning her to him. She couldn’t breathe. His shirt collar was sticking into her cheek, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to breathe, really, she just wanted to go on being held by him for ever, even if his clothes dug into her.

And then she pulled back. However much she wanted to let her emotions take over, there were things she needed to know before she could give in to her feelings. She had to be able to trust him. She drew her knees up to her chest, still in the bag.