9 November 1946

Lucien sat very still in an armchair by the fireplace - though there was no fire in the grate, given the oncoming summer - staring into a glass of his father's scotch while the old man puttered around in the kitchen, the steady tap tap tap of his cane upon the floor echoing through Lucien's mind like the gunfire in Singapore, disturbing his already adled thoughts. The sense of waiting hung heavy upon him, as if he had been trapped beneath a sheet of ice, slowly melting in the warmth of spring but not quickly enough for his liking. He had come so close, earlier in the day, so damnably close to finally breaking through the barriers Jean had thrown up between them, had seen the warmth and the want in her shining eyes, had felt the way she softened in his grip, swayed towards him, tantalized him with the offer of everything he had ever wanted. It might have - should have - been their moment, then, sweaty and delighted in the warmth of a sunny afternoon, but they had been interrupted by the untimely arrival of their children. Not that Lucien bore any of the little ones any ill will; those four children were the light of his life, the source of his delight, and he could not begrudge them their frivolity, their earnest fondness of him. Likewise, however, he could not deny that so long as they were underfoot he and Jean seemed to be making no progress whatsoever, and the longer he went without her by his side the more ravenous and distressed he became.

He should have been happy, he should have been content. Lucien had begun seeing patients in his father's surgery, and much to his chagrin had discovered that tending to the mundane complaints of his neighbors suited him just fine. Every day brought something new, but it was never catastrophic, never tense and heavy and dire as his previous posting with the Army. He was not performing surgery, here, was simply listening to his neighbors' complaints and doing his best to help them, and he found that they were, for the most part, a kind-hearted bunch. They made him laugh, made him smile, helped him get through the day. And his work as police surgeon brought with it all the challenges that his life as a country doctor lacked, the occasional suspicious death in town giving him the chance to immerse himself in a riddle. Yes, he was happy in his work, and he took joy in his child, he had mended his relationship with his father and he had money to spare. He should have been happy, and yet he was not, for despite all the good in his life Jean remained distant from him, and he could hardly bear their separation.

The glum churning of his mind was interrupted as his father made his way to the sitting room, scotch in one hand and cane in the other, a strange, rueful little smile tugging up the corners of his lips. As Lucien watched he settled into the corner of the sofa where a book was waiting for him, arranging limbs and drink and cane until he seemed quite comfortable. Thomas made some show of sighing contentedly, and then turned his gaze out the window.

"Nice night for it," he said, inexplicably.

Lucien stared at him, perplexed. For what? He wondered.

"Warm," Thomas continued. "And it's early yet."

This one-sided conversation was growing stranger by the second. The night was still young; it was just gone eight o'clock, and Li was already asleep, and the next day was Sunday, with no patients to visit, no cases to solve, just a whole cursed day to spend wallowing in his own unpleasant thoughts.

"Li's sleeping soundly," Thomas observed slyly, and all at once Lucien realized exactly what it was his father was suggesting. He stared at the old man, shocked and somehow awed by just how much Thomas had changed over the years. His father had been a hard man, a proud man in his youth, but losing his only son, fearing him dead for a time, suffering the long silence of their estrangement had given him a taste of humility and firmly rearranged his priorities. He laughed, now, as Lucien had not seen him do since his beloved Genevieve had died. Thomas delighted in spending time with his granddaughter, in making her smile, and had settled into a blissful state of semi-retirement, puttering around the sunroom and reading old books and looking at Lucien, every now and then, with sorrow in his gaze. There was no sorrow in him now, however, for the old man was doing his very best to encourage his son to recklessness, giving Lucien an opportunity to reach out and take hold of the dearest longing of his heart.

"That she is," Lucien said slowly, his thoughts racing.

"I've left the keys to the car on the table," Thomas said nonchalantly, lifting up his book and hiding his gaze from his son. "I could listen out for her, if you wanted to take a drive. Enjoy this lovely night."

Lucien wanted to laugh, but his heart was pounding so hard he could hardly spare the breath. Perhaps his father was right. It was a fine night, warm and clear, the children were asleep, and the world seemed full of possibility. If he and Jean could not find the time, during the daylight hours, to speak openly to one another without the children underfoot, perhaps it had fallen to Lucien to make the time.

Drawing in a deep breath he downed the last of his scotch in one go, and rose to his feet.

"I think I will," he said firmly, and when he saw the fond smile that flashed across his father's face, he could not help but grin.

"I won't wait up," Thomas said, and with those words Lucien left him, tearing from the room. He scooped up the car keys on his way through the kitchen and burst out into the night with a heart full of hope. He had promised Jean time, and he had given it to her, but he could not bear to linger a moment longer in this dreadful indecision. He would go to her, his dearest love, with his heart in his hand, and he would pray for her mercy. It was, after all, a nice night for it. The perfect night.

Jean was lying in her bed, the window flung open to let in a bit of the breeze, a book open on her lap, though in truth she was not even trying to read it. Try though she might to direct her thoughts elsewhere she found herself haunted by the moment she'd shared with Lucien that afternoon, the warmth of his hands, the fire in his eyes, the ferocious desire in his voice when he told her lowly, earnestly, how he cared for her. There were so many things she'd wanted to say to him, so many burdens she wanted to lay at his feet, and yet, as always, there simply had not been enough time, no time for her to tell him of her grief, her doubts, her hopes. It had been in her mind to invite him round for tea after church on Sunday, but he and Li had not stayed for supper, and she had been so disconcerted by the whole thing that the invitation had never passed her lips. Another opportunity lost, another moment's bliss she'd denied herself.

The warmth of the night wrapped around her like a blanket, stifling and quiet despite the gentle breeze ruffling her lacy curtains. Her treacherous thoughts had given way to an ache deep in her belly, a vast, yawning chasm of want and loneliness that she knew only Lucien could fill. Life on the farm was not the same, without him there beside her; the work brought her no joy, in the absence of his smile, his laugh, his warm voice. The children asked after him constantly, missing his steady presence, and every time they did she found herself wondering if she was doing the right thing, keeping this distance between them. She had asked him for time, and he had given it to her, but the days did not bring her clarity. Only his presence did that, and he was absent far too often.

In the darkness of her bedroom she sighed, and placed her book upon the sidetable. She could not read a single word, but perhaps if she turned out the light, she thought, she might find some peace, might slowly slip into dreams.

Sleep was not in the cards, however, for as she reached for the lamp a hoarse voice came drifting in through her window, whispering Jean.

The sound of it had her sitting bolt upright in a moment, her heart racing, fear suddenly gripping her like a vice. She was all alone on this remote farmstead, with three children to look after, and Christopher's gun was hidden in the back of her wardrobe, too far away for her to reach it easily. If some terror had come for her, some danger slipping up through the darkness, she was ill prepared to deal with it, but her fear gave way to exhilaration when once more she heard him whisper Jean, and realized who it was standing outside her bedroom window.

"Lucien?" she whispered back, sliding out of bed and crossing to the window at once. To her delight - and her utter confusion - she found him standing there on the other side of the window, his face hovering above her own, his expression unreadable in the darkness. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I need to speak to you," he told her in that same fervent whisper, "but I didn't want to wake the children. May I come in?"

There was something decidedly juvenile about this, Jean sneaking a man into her home through her bedroom window under cover of darkness, but she knew that he had done the right thing in coming to her this way; if he had knocked upon the door he would have woken the whole house, and any chance for privacy or open discussion they might have had would have vanished at once. The floorboards that lined the sitting room and corridor were old and creaky, and even if he had somehow managed to pass over the threshold without alerting suspicion, he would not have been able to take a single step without setting up a chorus of groans. This was the only way, and so despite feeling rather foolish Jean simply nodded and stepped aside, gesturing for him to join her.

Rather awkwardly he came clambering through in a tangle of arms and legs; she reached out to steady him, her hands on his broad chest, and in a moment he was there, standing before her, the racing of his heart undeniable beneath her palm. She stared up at him, at the warmth of his blue eyes, the fullness of his lips, the neat line of his beard, and felt her heart answering the call of his own. Earlier in the day he had looked at her hungrily and held her close and she had nearly given in to her desire for him, before responsibilities and propriety stayed her hand. There were no distractions, now, no work to be done, no children to look after, no pretense to separate her from him. They simply were, for the first time in a long time, two lonely people who cared for one another, sharing the same air, the same space, longing for the same things and yet utterly unsure how to achieve their desires.

"Hello," he whispered gently, and she could not help but smile at him, could not help the way she blushed beneath his frank stare, could not bring herself to pull her hands away from his chest. It seemed to her as if he were waiting for something, as if in the stillness of this moment he was gathering himself and his thoughts, marshalling all his arguments, and she realized with a sudden rush of clarity that she did not wish to hear whatever words he might choose to try and convince her to accept him. She wanted him, and somewhere deep inside her heart, she knew she had accepted him long ago. They needed to talk, yes, needed to decide how they might best go about joining their lives together, needed to talk about Lily, but he did not need to persuade her. She was his, body and soul, and she would not be happy until they were together, properly, the way they longed to be. There would be time enough later, she told herself as ever so slowly her hands drifted up along the plane of his chest and over his shoulders to curl around the back of his neck. Right now, in this moment, the problems that faced them paled into insignificance. He had told her that he loved her, had come back to her when he could have just as easily set her aside, had offered her all of himself, and she knew that the time had come for her to tell him the truth of her heart.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, swaying closer to him as his arms snaked around her waist, his expression both hopeful and pleased. "There's something I need to tell you." She hesitated for a moment, feeling keenly the gravity of the situation, all the potential for disaster and ecstasy that came with having him here so late at night, that came with the unleashing of her wild and willful heart.

"I'm all yours, Jean," he whispered back, and the earnest sincerity of those words gave her the courage to speak.

"I love you," she said simply. He had spoken those words to her at least half a dozen times, that night he'd taken her back to the barn and again when he'd returned from Shanghai, but she had never once returned the sentiment, had never told him outright how she cared for him, how much he meant to her. He deserved to hear it, she knew, no matter how difficult it may be for her to expose her vulnerabilities so plainly, to give voice to her complicated emotions. The effect her proclamation had on him was quiet but no less profound, for his whole being seemed to soften, his eyes and his lips and the arms wrapped around her body, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I don't know how we'll manage," she continued, "but I love you, Lucien Blake, with everything I have, and if you'll have me-"

Before she could finish that thought he had flashed a wild, delighted grin and the next thing she knew his lips were crashing into hers, one of his hands tangling in her hair while the other pressed to the small of her back, hauled her hard against him. A little gasp escaped her, as his ardent affections caught her by surprise, but then she melted in his arms, pouring all of herself into this sweet kiss, the tips of her fingers caressing the back of his neck while she lifted herself up onto her toes, pressed closer to him, sought out his warmth, the taste of him, the solid strength of his body. No, she did not know what might happen next, but she knew that whatever it was they would face it together. They would talk, and they would make their plans, and they would build a life together, as they always should have done. Neither of them would ever regret the families they had made, the spouses they had both cared for so deeply, would never forget the pasts that had forged them into the people they were on this night, but they would move forward, together, in grace and desperate love.

The sweetness of the kiss began to fade, beneath the hunger of their long separation. It was more than two months since the night he'd taken her in the barn, and the desire that she had woken in him on that night came roaring back with a vengeance. Having been given a taste of her, the softness of her body, the beautiful way she held him, he could not hold himself back. Perhaps it would be presumptuous of him, to ask her for such a gift a second time when he had not properly proposed to her and they had not really discussed their future, but as she kissed him he felt her own fervent need answering his own, and he began to suspect that she didn't much care whether or not it was presumptuous. There was nothing chaste about the eager way she pressed her hips against him, despite the fact that she could no doubt feel the evidence of his desire as thoughts of having her naked beneath his hands again overtook his rational mind.

He wanted, very much, to lay her down atop her crumpled sheets, to stretch her out beneath him and take his time with her, re-discovering every inch of her body. He had never, not once, made love to her in a proper bed, as the short-lived affair they'd conducted in their youth had, of necessity, taken place almost entirely in the backseat of his father's car, far from the prying eyes of their families and the pallet in the barn hardly counted. He took a single step forward, intent on reaching the bed, and she moved with him, graceful and clinging to him and more than willing, it seemed, to follow where he led, but a dark thought drew him up short. That bed, with its finely carved wooden headboard and its faded white coverlet, was not just Jean's bed. It was the bed she had shared with her husband, that man who had lost his life while Lucien stood by powerless to stop it, that man whose name she had taken, whose sons she had borne. And though Christopher Beazley had been dead for four long years, Lucien could not help but feel as if making love to Jean in Christopher's bed would be a dreadful sort of betrayal, especially when he could not even be bothered to wait until he'd put a ring upon her finger. No, the bed would have to wait, he thought, until Jean was properly his wife, until he could assure Christopher's ghost that his intentions were good, that he would do everything he could to nurture and protect the family Christopher had left behind.

He was spared the agony of explaining any of this to Jean, however, when she tore her lips from his own and gazed up at him, gasping and blushing.

"Wait," she whispered breathlessly.

Hs heart sank; perhaps she had decided that they could ill afford to repeat the mistakes of their past. Much as he might regret missing this opportunity now he would respect her wishes in all things, and so he dutifully began to withdraw from her, but she stopped him with her blood-red nails biting into the back of his neck.

"No," she said quickly, and he was so relieved it almost shamed him, "I want you, Lucien. It's just...the bed squeaks. We'll have to be-"

Before she could tell him to be quiet he was already jumping into action. He kissed her again, hard, and with his hands clenched tight around her hips he spun them around and took three steps forward, grinning into the kiss when Jean's back met the support of the wall by the window and a little gasp escaped her. Yes, this would suit his purposes just fine, would sate his most urgent need, would solidify their commitment to one another, would appease his somewhat twisted sense of morality where the bed was concerned and all with the added bonus of keeping the noise to a minimum.

Having realized what it was he intended Jean caught his bottom lip between her teeth, and their desires were unleashed in earnest. Trading fervent, nipping kisses and ragged, panting breaths they fell upon one another, her nimble fingers attacking his shirt buttons, his broad hands catching the soft material of her nightdress and lifting it up over her head in a moment. He groaned, quietly, at the sight of her smooth, pale skin, but before he could lower his head and begin to feast upon her she pushed him back, one eyebrow arched and her fingertips curling around the waistband of his trousers. Lucien was certain that he had never, in all his life, seen anything as provocative as a Jean, naked and utterly glorious, looking at him that way, telling him with the heat of her eyes to take off his trousers and join her in delirium. He was all too happy to comply.

The moment his trousers touched the floor she reached for him, gentle hands intent upon his hardness, but he brushed them aside in favor of sliding his own hands beneath her thighs, lifting her up, holding her in place between his chest and the wall. She was panting, eyes alight with mischief, and he could feel her already torturously hot as she wrapped her legs around his waist and ground her center against his lower belly. She was beautiful like this, every line and curve of her face close enough for him to brush her skin with his lips, and so he did, pressing gentle kisses to the rise of her cheek, the corners of her eyes, the edge of her mouth, the line of her chin. His broad hands, calloused now by hard work, dragged along the smooth skin of her thighs to clench hard around her bum, pressing her that much closer to him, drawing a sigh of contentment from them both. All the worries, all the fears, all the doubts, all the hesitation they had carried between them for the last year faded into nothingness in that moment, drowned beneath the waves of their love for one another.

"I love you," she whispered again, one hand wrapped around his neck, the other winding softly through his hair as she held him close. "I love you."

He had waited twelve years to hear her say those words, to know, for a certainty, that she felt as strongly for him as he did for her, to know that they were united in this life, that she would be by his side. The time would come, and soon, when he would ask her to be his wife as he had tried to do before, and now that he knew without a doubt that she would accept him, he found he had never in his life been happier than he was in that moment. There were not words for this, this swirling joy, this towering need, this sense of completeness, and so for the first time in his life Lucein chose not to speak. They would speak later, he told himself, and so in that moment he only lowered his head, and kissed her deeply, his tongue seeking out the secrets of her mouth, her arms tightening their grip on him, as if she meant what she had told him once, that she would never let him go.

Desperation and anticipation made them reckless, and their kiss grew sloppy as they struggled for breath, as Lucien shifted his grip so that he was holding her up with one hand while the other slipped over her bum to trace gentle patterns against her soft folds, testing her wetness and finding her so eager for him that he nearly growled. She gasped, soft and sweet and ready, as he dipped one finger inside her, and what little remained of his restraint left him. He would gladly spend the rest of his lifetime loving her in every way, with everything he had, but right now, tonight, he could not wait another moment longer.

Neither could she, it seemed, for when he drew his hips back she reached between them and curled her fingers around his shaft, throbbing with want of her, and caressed him fervently, drew him closer to her. Delicate teeth found the lobe of his ear and nipped him once, not unpleasantly.

"Now, Lucien," she told him urgently, and he reacted at once, his hips surging towards her, his hands drawing her down onto him, a groan escaping them both as he thrust into her. Hot as fire and dripping with need of him her sex contracted around him, and he pounded into her, hard and unrelenting and perishing with want of her. She would be bruised tomorrow, and his back would sting next time he bathed from the scratches her nails etched into his skin, but he did not - could not - spare a moment to care, not when her lips pressed tight to the thick muscles of his neck to silence the sound of her pleasure and her breasts heaved against his chest soft and glorious and her wet heat drew him in, deeper and deeper.

His hips and hands worked in tandem, drawing her down as he thrust up, her back connecting with the wall again and again, and each time he surged within her a song like the chorus of angels filled his mind. His cock throbbed, heavy and hard and insatiable, and her walls fluttered around him, and when he ducked his head to drag his tongue along the sweat-slicked skin of her throat she whimpered, as lost in bliss as he. The need was building in him, tightening his muscles, urging him to a frenzied pace, and the way Jean gave herself over to him so fully, wanton and wild in his arms, told him they were both moments away from tumbling off the precipice.

"So good," Jean gasped, and if he could have spared the breath he would have agreed with her. They were good, they were right, they were so perfectly matched, so transcendent in their desire for one another. He had never, in his life, wanted anything so much as he wanted her.

"Oh, god," another desperate little whimper escaped her. She kept her voice low, and he prayed it would not carry to where her children slept, but he could not bring himself to admonish her, for he loved the sounds she made, the way she whispered to him, begged for him. Still he pounded into her, beads of sweat rolling down his back, his whole body focused on Jean and the way she clutched at him, trembled, shook with her abandon. He hoped that she was close, for he could not stave off his own release much longer.

"Please, Lucien, please," she pleaded with him, and so he shifted, leaned one hand against the wall and changed the angle between them, ground himself against her tender heat as he thrust even harder, sharply, delving into her as deeply as he could. He did it again, and again, and on the third time she broke, her teeth sinking into his shoulder as her legs clamped tight around his hips, as her soft heat fluttered around his fevered length, as the soft wet sounds of their union and the warmth of her skin undid him utterly. He buried his face in her hair and bit his own bottom lip to keep from groaning as he spilled into her, unable to deny the siren song of her body a moment longer.

Bliss, everything was bliss, and Jean, and beauty in that moment.

"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I came here, you know," he told her softly.

They had straightened themselves out; as soon as his legs were steady Lucien had carried her to bed, had tenderly cleaned her up, had nuzzled against her neck and breasts and kissed her softly, sweetly, everywhere, the curve of her hip, the rise of her bum, the back of her knee, had blessed every inch of her skin with tender affection until at last he collapsed with his head in her lap and a smile on his lips.

It was a smile Jean returned as she looked down at him now, running her fingers through his unruly blonde curls, thinking how handsome he was, this reckless man of hers, how kind, how thoughtful, how gentle, how strong.

"Well then," she said playfully, "you must be the first man in history to ever sneak through a woman's window in the dead of night with chaste intentions."

He laughed softly, and turned his head to press a tender kiss against the soft skin of her belly.

"I really did want to talk, Jean," he told her.

"I know," she sighed. She did not particularly want to talk, to hash out all the complications of their situation, but she knew that they must, if ever they were to have the life she'd dreamed of, and so she was determined to face all the ugly truths that haunted her.

"We can make this work, my darling," he said. One of his hands was kneading her thigh gently, distractingly, and she tried to focus on the warmth of his touch, and not her own fears. "I know you love the farm," he said slowly, "but there's not really room enough for all of us here. If you wanted, we could build an extension-"

"No," she said, cutting him off at once. The farm was Christopher's dream, not hers. The house was his, the bed was his, the ground was his, every inch. She had loved him, in her own way, had tried her best to keep that dream alive, but the time had come for her to follow her own heart. It would not do, to try to force Lucien into Christopher's shoes, to continue to hack out a meager living in a place so full of memories. The time had come to forge a new path.

"We could live in my father's house," he said. "He actually suggested it. After a fashion."

Jean stared down at him in surprise. Old Doctor Blake had been kind to her, the last time they'd spoken, but she'd never imagined, even for a moment, that the man who had caused their estrangement in the first place would now try so hard to bring them back together. Perhaps he felt he had much to atone for, or perhaps he more selfishly wanted to keep his son close. Whatever his reasons, it was a kind offer, and one Jean knew should be carefully considered, and not dismissed out of hand.

"There's room enough," he continued, closing his eyes as he no doubt pictured what their life would be like, in that fine house. "There's three bedrooms upstairs, and a studio downstairs that could be converted. We could have that room, and the boys could share, and Li and Lily could each have their own room. Only the best, for my girls."

This last he'd added with a playful smile, but Jean's heart had begun to race. He was so sweet, so hopeful, and his plan was a perfect one. She wanted it, wanted their family all together, even old Doctor Blake, under one roof, united and at peace. She wanted that fine house, wanted to make their meals in that kitchen, wanted Lucien like this, warm and happy in her arms, every day. But before she could reach out and seize that dream there was a difficult confession she would have to make, and Lucien had just presented her with the perfect opportunity. Though she was terrified, she took a deep breath, and spoke.

"They are, you know," she told him softly. "Your girls. Both of them."

For a moment he only stared at her, silence thick and heavy as a cloud upon them. Jean did not dare blink, could not tear her gaze away from the soulful depths of his blue eyes, could barely hear over the rush of blood in his veins. Was it enough, she wondered, those simple words, could he discern her meaning? Oh, god, what must he think of her?

The agony of that silence was brief, however, for Lucien's hand tightened upon her thigh and he kissed her belly again before speaking.

"I know," he said. "I know, my darling."

It was the truth, and she deserved to hear it. It had been five months since his father had planted that seed of doubt in his mind, five months Lucien had spent watching Lily and her mother and wondering at the truth. Five months of pouring over the rough timeline of Lily's birth his father had sketched in for him, thinking of how reckless he and Jean had been, thinking how she might have saved her reputation by marrying Christopher so quickly. Five months of his affection for Lily - and her brothers - only growing deeper, five months of falling more and more in love with Jean. He knew what it had cost her, to tell him the truth now, how scared she must have been, how long she had harbored this secret in her heart. He was so grateful to her, for finding the courage to tell him the truth, for the beautiful gift that was their daughter, for loving him, still, after everything, and there was no a single piece of him that felt anything but love and joy in that moment.

Tears began to slip down Jean's cheeks, an expression of shock upon her face, and so he hauled himself upright and pulled her into his arms, rearranging them so that she was seated upon his lap, her face buried in his neck as she wept, softly, quietly. His hands traced nonsense patterns along the smooth skin of her back, and in the silence he spoke.

"She's a wonderful little girl," he told her, "and I am so proud of you, Jean, for raising these children up, almost entirely on your own. You have made a good life for your family, and...please, my darling, look at me."

He found that without her steady gaze it was growing harder to speak, and at his words she raised her head, and in the softness of her grey eyes he found peace.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Jean," he told her firmly. "If I had known-"

"I'm so sorry, Lucien," she whispered brokenly. "I should have told you, I should have-"

"You thought that I was gone," he insisted. "I was gone. You did what you had to in order to protect our little girl. And I love you for it, Jean."

His voice was a fierce whisper, soothing every ache in her heart. Somehow, miraculously, he had already guessed the truth, and now that she had spoken it all her previous fears seemed frivolous in the face of his fervent love. Jean gave thanks, in that moment, sent up a silent grateful prayer to God for giving her this man, returning him to her arms, giving them a chance to rebuild their broken little family.

"I love Lily," he told her. "And I love the boys. No less than I love Li. They are our children, all four of them, and we will give them a home, and look after them, and I will love you, every day."

The tears overcame her again as she looked at him, as she reached out to brush the pad of her thumb against his full bottom lip, as words failed her utterly. Christopher had sworn much the same to her once, and he had made good on that promise, had done everything he could for them, and while he was alive their family had been happy and well. Now that Lucien was swearing his devotion, not just to her, but to her children - all three of them, not just the one who was his flesh and blood - she felt nothing but joy, and relief, and love of this man. There was nothing she could say that could adequately capture the overwhelming emotions that swirled within her, and so she did not speak, choosing instead to close the space between them and kiss him breathless. At long last it seemed that all her dreams were coming true.