Jean lay very still, her limbs heavy and loose, her whole body warm and soft, her heart more joyful, more content than it had been in months, in years, in a decade. Beside her, beneath her, Lucien slept, one of his arms flung across her bare back, his heartbeat steady and comforting in her ear as she rested with her head pillowed on his chest. The little diamond ring sparkled on her finger, drawing her attention to her hand where it lay pressed against his golden skin.
For a time she simply stared at that ring, counting the little stones, following their winding pattern, thinking how strange, how wonderful, how lovely it was to be in this place, with his arms around her, his ring on her finger, his love and his joy filling her entire being. Perhaps it was foolish, the way she had tumbled into his bed, allowed his heated, hungry kisses and wandering hands to relieve her of her good sense, to catapult her into recklessness, and yet she had not so much fallen into this transgression as she had leapt, with arms wide open, knowing it was folly and yet winding her fingers through his hair and pressing her body closer to his, gasping, grinning, wild and free. In the end there had been no other choice, not for her, not for a heart that yearned to be seen, to be known, to be held, to be loved. They were already in his room and the bed was just there and he loved her and he had given her this ring and she had wanted, oh how she had wanted, every moment of every day since she first met him. Even when she hated him, even when he frightened her, even when every word they spoke to one another was thinly veiled criticism she had fallen asleep to the staccato rhythm of her wanting heart and the vision of those broad hands ghosting over her skin. She had wanted him when they were no more than strangers, and that want had grown, shifted, changed into a longing so acute that not even her closely held faith in the tenents of her church was so sufficient to stay her hand.
And oh, but Lucien had surpassed her every expectation, had been tender and strong and worshipful, had whispered love across her skin, had traced the shape of her with trembling, reverent hands, had coaxed her to a confidence and a desire she had not felt in so very long that before this night she had been certain she never would again. He had reminded her, with every powerful, certain movement of his body, why she had once been young and foolish enough to give herself to Christopher before they were ever properly wed, why the kitchen of their farmhouse had borne witness to a thousand silly, eager embraces, why the kitchen of Lucien's home had featured so vividly, so frequently in her dreams. He had reminded her, with every gentle, awestruck word that spilled out of his reckless mouth what it was to feel desired, needed, alive. And she could not bring herself to regret it, not now, not yet, when her legs were still shaky as a newborn colt's and her lips were still curved into that self-satisfied smile.
Later, she would regret. Later she would kneel by her bed with her rosary wound round her fingers and whisper out her contrition. Later she would confess, cheeks flaming, to Father Emory, and perform the penance he gave her. Later she would lie warm in her bath and feel the shiver of fear that twisted through her body as she recalled the vengeful god of her youth, the one who had struck her down one fine summer day, the one who had stolen her dreams as payment for her sins, the one who had reminded her that his word was law, no matter the desires of her heart. Later she might keep her eyes downcast and her hands to herself, would let fear keep her from repeating such delicious mistakes.
But not now, not yet. For this moment was too beautiful, too full of love and the steady intimacy she had so dearly longed for, and she would not spoil it with thoughts of grief and retribution and blood splashing across a worn wooden floor. In this moment she was determined to feel only love, and hope for a future that now looked so much brighter than it had done just a day before.
She had known, for quite some time, that Lucien harbored some affection for her. When he had gone tearing off after her the day she made to leave for Adelaide he had proven to her that what he felt for her was love, in truth. And in the weeks since her return he had, at every turn, showered her with that love. Always before he had been a tactile sort of person, his hand trailing fondly across the small of her back, squeezing her shoulder, fingertips brushing the back of her hand, but those casual almost-touches had changed, since Adelaide. He was deliberate, now, catching hold of her waist, not fleeting but maintaining the contact, drawing her to him, planting a kiss against the corner of her mouth. Dancing with her in the sitting room in the evenings, the wireless playing softly, their bodies pressed close together, hearts beating in time to the music. He had made no demands of her, had not pushed her, had not backed her against the kitchen sink and pressed his advances; he had simply opened himself up to her, created little moments for them to steal a taste of one another, and the result was an intoxicating churning deep in Jean's belly, an ache only he could sate.
And then he had; oh, but he had. Jean blushed to think of it now, to see the mark of her teeth against his chest where her mouth had latched onto him, desperate to stifle the sound of her pleasure as his arms bound her in place above him, as his hips drove up into her, as all conscious thought left her and all that remained was him. She blushed to think of it now, to see the mark of his lips against the curve of her breast where his mouth had taken up residence while his fingers plunged into her slick heat, sent her careening off into bliss. She blushed to think of it now, to think of all the secrets of her deepest self she had so easily shared with him, without a second thought, without a doubt. He had seen her, every inch, every imperfection, and declared her beautiful, so beautiful, my beautiful Jean. She had seen him, every inch, every scar, had run her fingertips over the ruins of his back and whispered you're safe, you're safe, my brave love.
This was not the proper way for a respectable widowed housekeeper to behave, ring or no. This was not the proper way for a good Catholic lady, for a mother of two grown sons, for an upstanding woman to behave, and yet she had done it just the same, had reveled in it, had loved every moment of her sin, had panted more, more, more, god, yes against her lover's skin like some wild, brazen thing. Perhaps all Lucien had done, in holding her close, in sheltering her beneath his own bedsheets, was to reveal her for the wanton creature she was, the hungry, wide-eyed girl she had always been. She had tried, god but she had tried, to be good, to be right, to follow the rules of her church, her priest, her family, to be selfless, to be kind, to encourage others to do the same. She had tried, god but she had tried, to silence the yearning of her heart, to ignore her bitter disappointments, her loneliness, to find solace in confession and a whispered Hail Mary and the icons of the saints and the companionship of the sewing circle ladies. She had tried, and then Lucien had come to her, and he had with warm eyes and a mischievous smile made her question all the years of effort she had put in, made her wonder if perhaps it wouldn't be best to simply let her heart do what it would, and forget the rest. He had had made her wonder, that brilliant, handsome man, if it wouldn't be better to simply let herself go free.
His hand twitched against her back, a soft, rumbling sound coming up from the depths of his consciousness as he slowly drew himself up out of dreams. It was late, terribly late, and much as she might like to spend the night just like this, breathing in the scent of his skin, warm and safe in the sanctuary of his arms, Jean knew she needed to leave him. Not just for the sake of Charlie's good opinion of her, but for the sake of her own soul; they were not married, not yet, had only been engaged a bare few hours, and she needed some time to herself, to plan, to think. Whatever passions he may have loosed within her he had not transported her to a different life, and there were considerations to take into account. Talk would spread like a brushfire, when it became known that they were engaged and yet living together. Father Emory might not consent to perform their marriage if it appeared they were living in sin, and Jean could not bear the thought of being married outside the church. Besides the damage it might do to her own sterling reputation she worried for Lucien, for the future of his practice, for his position as police surgeon, should it become common knowledge that he was in fact a letch. None of this would matter to him, she knew, and so it would fall to her to find a way to protect them both, at least until they were properly wed. And there was the matter of their children, her two boys and Lucien's Li, who would need to be informed gently, and soon, of their intentions. Christopher would be pleased, she thought, for he had seemed to accept Lucien from the very beginning, whereas Jack had been rather more disdainful of the good doctor and his role in Jean's life. She had no notion of what Li might think, hidden as she was on the other side of the world, and she worried about that, as well, wondered about what sort of grief might lie in wait for Lucien should his daughter respond to news of his engagement with disdain.
Lucien's fingertips drummed against her spine and despite those niggling worries she smiled, turning her head to press a gentle kiss to his chest.
"Good morning," he said in a voice gruff from sleep, and Jean laughed, just a little.
"Silly man," she chided him. "It's not morning. Not for a while yet."
"Even better," he answered playfully, and before Jean could stop it he had rolled her smoothly beneath him, covering her with his bulk, smiling down at her so brilliantly that she could not bring herself to reprimand him, could only reach out and smooth her palm against his cheek, ruffling his beard with her fingertips.
"We're going to get married, Jean," he said, his tone so full of wonder, and as she smiled up at him he bowed his head, and kissed the tip of her nose.
"Yes," she sighed. "But not today. I can't stay here, Lucien."
To his credit he did not pout, or try to change her mind. "I know," he said. "I know, my darling."
She wanted to stay, and so she was grateful to him for not insisting; she wasn't entirely sure she possessed the strength to leave him, should he beg her to remain. His bed was warm and soft, and he was so handsome, and kind, so full of joy. She decided to linger, just for a moment, running her toes against the backs of his calves and delighting in the way he trembled against her in response.
"What do we do next?" he asked her, and her heart sang, to see once again this evidence of his regard for. Always he turned to her, when he was lost, in need of assistance, when the tangle of his own thoughts proved impossible to unwind, and always she was there for him, ready and willing to help him through it. The way that he relied upon her, the way that he needed her for more than just this tantalizing brush of skin on skin, convinced her more than anything that theirs was a marriage that could work, built on love and trust and a strange sort of partnership that she enjoyed, very much.
"Well," she said, smoothing her hand over his wild hair, gone curly and soft beneath her fingertips, "first I'm going to go upstairs and try to get some sleep. And then tomorrow, we're going to wake up, and we're going to go to work like we always do. We'll talk to our children, and we'll talk to Father Emory, and we'll decide on a date. And then…" and then there would be flowers, and dresses, and suits, and invitations, and a whole litany of little details to be worked out. She would need to speak to her sister Eadie and to Danny - who no doubt would be delighted by the prospect of her marrying Lucien - and write to Mattie. She would need to talk to Lucien about his expectations, and determine what sort of wedding would suit both their sensibilities. She would need to work out her living arrangements, decide whether to stay or find lodging elsewhere in town. They would need to decide whether to run an announcement in the paper, or whether to just let people see the ring upon her finger and whisper amongst themselves. Would they take a honeymoon trip? Where? For how long? The list went on and on, and already she felt almost dizzy.
Perhaps Lucien could sense her sudden distress for he leaned towards her then, and kissed her soundly.
"We don't have to decide everything right this moment," he whispered against her lips, and she smiled, thinking how well he knew her and her penchant for planning, her need to control her circumstances, thinking how well they balanced one another, as she encouraged him to be more circumspect and he reminded her how to live in the moment.
"No," she agreed, lifting her chin and giving him one last kiss. "But I do need to go."
"All right," he said, flopping over onto his back somewhat dramatically. The sheets were tangled round his waist but the broad expanse of his chest, the thick, corded muscles that bound his arms were on full display, and she blushed, and he grinned at her roguishly as she took in the sight of him, this glorious man who would be her husband.
"Go on, then," he said, and despite herself she smiled.
"Insufferable man," she chided him, swatting at his belly for good measure before she rolled out of bed, casting about in search of her clothes with the weight of his gaze heavy upon her back. Yes, there was much to be done, but for now she was determined just to enjoy this, to enjoy him, to bask in the knowledge that they loved one another, that they had a lifetime together to look forward to.
When at last she slipped up the stairs on silent feet, she was grinning fit to burst, the sparkle of Lucien's mother's ring giving her all the reassurance she needed. They were going to be all right.