Jean found the rhythmic sound of the sharp-edged hoe moving in the soil soothing. Odd really, that she preferred this to music, or the birds singing, but few things pleased her as much as her garden. And it was her garden; her name might not be on the deeds of the house yet, but this was her land, and she would guard it fiercely.

The three men of the house were wearing at her nerves. Lucien, of course, followed her with his eyes anxiously, always watching her from a distance it seemed. He said very little. He had said everything he could say: he was sorry, he loved her, he would understand if she had had enough of him. Now he would just have to wait.

Meanwhile Charlie and Matthew crept around the house, mostly staying in their rooms, avoiding both her and Lucien, and making brave but useless attempts at conversation over awkward meals.

She needed to be in her garden, smelling the lavender and the roses, and the newly exposed earth as she worked. A December morning just days before Christmas was not ideal for this work; too hot and dry, and there was a mental list of tasks that still needed to be done running through her mind. Phone Christopher and Ruby, ice the Christmas cake, decide if she could face going to Midnight Mass this Christmas Eve.

She paused and leaned on the hoe, wiping her forehead with the back of her gardening glove. Here was satisfaction. You planted, tended and watered, weeded and pruned, and in due time you had your reward. There was a design and a simplicity here that she would never find in a life with Lucien Blake.

He had warned her a life with him would be messy, and he had not exaggerated.

Now she was making him wait. Maybe punishing him a little, she conceded to herself as she gathered up the weeds for the compost heap. Because she was fixed, heart and soul, on Lucien, and she already knew that in the New Year she would leave the church she had belonged to all her life, and marry him.

And there would be consequences.

She could feel his eyes on her again, and she walked further down the garden to tackle a different border, taking out her anger on the weeds.

Lucien stood in the sunroom watching her work. He knew nothing about plants, but he had grown used to being surrounded by her flowers. Begonias and geraniums were stacked on benches and shelves around him, and their scent was a reminder of sweeter times; snatched moments and secret kisses in this room, between the demands of patients and lodgers.

He ached with the worry of losing her, a low pain in his belly which was part longing, part shame. He had little work now to distract him, and the whisky bottle in his desk drawer was becoming more tempting by the hour.

He frowned a little at the sight of Christopher's aloe plant. Perhaps he would keep her here, if no one else could.

xxxxxxx

While Jean washed up the dishes after lunch, she heard the scraping of his chair as Lucien got up and left the kitchen without speaking. As recently as a week ago, he would have come and stood behind her, his hands on her hips, and his nose in her hair.

She missed him. She missed his hands on her with easy affection. He would have kissed her neck perhaps, and grabbed a tea towel to dry some dishes, and they would have chatted about the day. It had all been so comfortable and lovely, and now she had frightened him away, into his mother's studio, with her anger and distance.

Maybe it was time to give a little. Just a little.

Slowly, she dried her hands on her apron and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. Everything she touched in the house held a memory of their shared life, and she wanted to make more memories, if they could.

She hesitated at the studio door. Half open already, she pushed it further, watching him sitting on the couch, a book open on his knees. She was sure he had not even started to read it; the middle pages splayed upright, unnoticed, and Lucien's gaze was fixed on the empty fireplace.

She bustled in quickly, brushing her hand on his shoulder lightly as she went past him. She crouched by the grate, sweeping invisible ash off the hearth, and replaced the brush carefully. She bit her lip, suppressing a smile. She should have found a better excuse to come in the studio. It was months since the fire had been lit, and she must look foolish.

Lucien was staring at her, but still in his own world. Jean had not touched him in days, not since she held his hand, and rested her chin on his shoulder, in the hallway. He had held on to that in the following days: she had touched him, so she had not completely rejected him.

But the memory of her furious words was still fresh. He had got so much so wrong, although he had only ever meant to protect her.

But now she had touched him again.

"Jean?"

She turned and came to stand close to him, looking at him properly for the first time in days. She was shocked by the tinge of grey in his face. The creases around his red-rimmed eyes were deeper, and his beard needed trimming. He seemed to have aged, and she had not even noticed.

Jean ruffled his beard gently, just for a moment.

"You could do with a trim, Lucien," she teased him. He continued to look at her blankly.

She offered him her hand, and waited. When he covered it with his own hand, she felt that familiar jolt, the longing she had missed. His hand shook slightly, and a thought struck her.

"Lucien? Did you..?"

He nodded. "I thought I should. It's time I stopped trying to drink myself to death." He gave her a wry smile, and her stomach lurched.

"Do you think you can do it?" The disbelief must have been clear in her voice.

He shifted unconsciously. Jean acknowledged with a slow blink that that might depend at least partly on her decision.

"I'm staying," she said firmly. "I'm still angry with you, but I'm going to stay."

Lucien pulled her hand nearer, so she had to step closer. "I'm glad," he replied, relief sweeping over him, and they smiled at each other slowly.

As she moved to settle beside him on the couch, Lucien pulled her over him to sit in his lap.

"Come on," he urged her, wrapping his arms around her as she landed awkwardly. She made a startled yelp as she fell against him, not sure if she were laughing or cross. She balled her hand hard against his chest, frustrated that he thought a cuddle would solve all their problems, and irritated that desire was growing between them, out of her control.

"I'm still cross," she protested, but with less conviction. Her nose was nuzzling his ear, seemingly without her meaning to, and he risked a grin.

"I can tell," he teased her.

She did not reply, but she was combing her fingers through the hairs curling on the back of his neck and stroking her cheek gently against his beard, breathing in the scent of soap and hair cream on him.

Lucien rubbed one hand against her back, soothingly, meaning to reassure, but then as Jean began to nip at his neck gently, he let his fingertips slide a little further, over shoulder and hip, tracing the curve at her waist.

She brushed her lips softly over his, holding him against her, kissing him with a need he had only felt from her once before, while he raked through her hair, teasing out the soft curls.

This time she did not break away. She tugged and nipped at his lip, running her tongue tip against it, smooth and delicate, then catching the roughness of his moustache, all adding to the warmth and urgency growing in her belly.

He tasted subtly different, still him, but without the fire of the whisky in his breath. For a moment she regretted it. She should be glad he had given up drinking, but would he be the same man she loved without it? Then all that was forgotten as his mouth worked against hers and his tongue slid between her lips. Her breath was coming in gasps and gentle moans now, and she finally broke away.

To her surprise, she realised Lucien had somehow undone her blouse, and his fingers were stroking the rise and dip of her breast, cupping its weight in his palm. Now she had freed his mouth, he used it on the tender parts of her neck and chest, grumbling under his breath at the barrier of her underclothes, nosing at the damp skin between her breasts.

"Lucien," she chided him, "don't leave any marks."

He grinned up at her. "Too late," he said cheerfully, tracing with his fingertip the reddening marks across her breasts that his beard and lips had made.

She grimaced at him, feigning annoyance, then set to work unbuttoning his open necked shirt. She had seen his chest before, changing the dressing on his stab wound, but this was very different.

Then he had been difficult, irritated by his weakness and the pain he struggled to hide. She had tried to hurry along, cleaning the wound and redressing it swiftly, and determinedly not noticing his vulnerability.

Now he let her take her time. She flattened her palm against the warm, tanned skin on his shoulder, then slid smoothly down to his belly, over his singlet, gliding over the still-raised scar she could just feel through the cotton. At his waistband she stopped and looked up, and saw an open, honest desire for her in his eyes.

This was not the moment to falter. She tugged at the vest and grinned as she lifted it away.

Then scrambling to straddle his lap, she hitched her skirt up higher, and his hands were on her thighs and hips in a moment. He groaned into her mouth and a shock of pleasure rippled through her.

His fingers traced hot swirls on the soft skin around her stocking tops, and grazed over the lace at the edge of her underwear. Every light touch felt strong, every nerve sparking. She knelt up, giving him more room, and gripped his shoulders, digging into the muscles as she clung on for dear life.

She pressed open-mouthed kisses to his cheeks and forehead, then had to break away as he dipped down to mouth at her breasts again. He growled in frustration at the stiff fabric of her bra getting in the way. Perhaps this was her armour and he had come far enough.

Suddenly he lifted her up and off him, and she whimpered at the loss of contact, cool air striking against her skin.

He pulled himself away from her, squeezing his eyes shut against the effort.

"No," she whined, "no, I want you..." her earlier doubts fading.

"But you've always said we should..." But did he really want to remind her of that now?

"Father Emery was wrong," she murmured. She patted his shoulder absent-mindedly, and started to peel off her blouse.

Lucien's mouth hung open in shock, as he watched her unclip her bra, explaining the whole time.

"He asked if we'd done anything that couldn't be undone. He thought I could walk away from you, just because we've never been to bed together."

Lucien nodded slowly. The man must be a fool. They had long since passed that point.

"So now, I won't be going back to the church," There was a momentary crack in her voice. "And I won't want to undo this." The air in the studio seemed heavy, sultry; his breath caught, as desire rose still higher.

He cleared his throat, stalling for a moment to think.

"Right," he decided. "Bed." He scooped up their discarded clothes and grabbed her hand, heading for the door. She tugged at his trailing shirt till he let it go, and clutched it against her chest, suddenly shy about trotting through the house half naked. At the foot of the stairs he hesitated, glancing up towards her room, but she propelled him down to his room, and shut the door behind them.

Before she could draw breath he had her pinned against the door, the weight of his thighs against her, and he was hard against her belly. She slung her arms around his neck, hanging from him, pressing more urgent kisses to his neck, savouring the harshness of his beard. His hands were roaming everywhere, swarming over her roughly, until he hitched her up and she wrapped her legs around him, skirt bunched up and the shirt still trapped between them.

Hands under her thighs, he swung round towards the bed, and they tumbled onto it, pulling back the covers, laughing as the mattress creaked under them. Clothes swiftly came off, thrown aside carelessly, and they reached out for each other again.

Jean's hand resting on his heart slowed the momentum for a while. They should take their time, explore at their leisure, he thought, but their bodies pressed on regardless. She was rocking against him with the rhythm of the sea as he lay between her legs, each wave opening her up to him more. He caught a glimpse of her face, eyes closed and lips swollen with kisses, as he dived lower.

His tongue circled one pale nipple, then the other, as she rose higher and higher, gripping his hips, pulling him closer still. Then, a sudden fullness, full of fear and joy, and the relief that he was there, really there, no longer teasing, but slowly thrusting through slickness, steady and steadying, both of them arching away then clinging on. And then - a moment of stillness and peace, a flood of heat and spirit, with called-out half-heard words, quickly forgotten, as they collapsed together.

As the sweat cooled on their skin they rolled away, her leg still between his thighs, her breasts brushing his side, her head against his shoulder. She could barely remember the last time she had lain this close to a man, and it seemed more intimate even than what had gone before. Sated for the moment, this closeness was all the more precious for the distance of the last few days.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked drowsily.

She frowned. She did not want to think about that now.

"You were forgiven days ago. That's the easy part." She hesitated. Perhaps it would take longer still until it was truly behind them.

"I know. It can't be over till the divorce is done, and we're married, and maybe not even then." He sighed against her temple, kissing the soft hairs there.

"It'll be soon enough," she murmured. Perhaps this was her chance to say it. "I love you too."