Jean had taken the time she needed to be alone with her thoughts. To rid herself of her clothes and wrap herself in her dressing gown and curl up on her bed with her eyes closed and just breathe. She was safe now. She was safe and she was at home. But she could not escape the fact that she had been closer to death today than ever before in her life. And if she had died today, if Harry had not protected her as he did, Jean knew she would have died with far too many regrets.

The distant sounds of the piano drifted upstairs. Lucien played so beautifully. Thomas Blake had been, as Lucien said, a virtuoso. But what Lucien had that his father did lacked was a passion in his playing. When Lucien played, Jean felt as though she could read his very heart.

That song he was playing now was so mournful, it nearly brought tears to her eyes. And yet there was a romance in it that spoke to her. His song seemed to sing out to her, I want you and I need you but I do not want to burden you with all of that. Perhaps Jean read too much into that, but she could feel that this melody was so very Lucien, and she was hearing what she wanted to hear from it. Whatever it was, it moved her to get up from her bed and go downstairs.

Lucien did not notice her approach. He was absorbed in his playing, and she indulged in watching him for a moment. But it became too much to bear, to only watch him. There was so much that needed to be said. Ever so gently, Jean placed her hand on his shoulder.

He jumped slightly at her touch. He immediately stopped playing and turned to her. "Jean," he said in slight surprise.

She realized in that moment that she had so very rarely been the one to reach out to him. He was the far more tactile of the two of them. She reveled in the way he reached for her, the way he put a hand on her arm or the small of her back or got so very close to her. But now, more than ever before, Jean needed to be the one to reach for him. To touch him. To remember that he was real and solid and right there in front of her.

Lucien stood and her hand moved from his shoulder to rest on his chest. She could feel his heart beating beneath her palm. For a moment, she just stared at her hand resting on his chest. "Jean, are you alright?" he asked her softly, interrupting her quiet contemplation

She looked up at him, realizing how much smaller she was than he when she was not wearing her shoes. "I wanted to talk to you," she said quietly. She felt her voice shake, knowing it would take a lot of bravery to say what she needed to say here.

"Of course," he replied, placing his hand on top of hers and giving it a comforting squeeze.

"I was…I was quite frightened today."

"So was I. Seeing Carr point that gun towards you…"

"Not just that," she interrupted, barreling through. "I wasn't just afraid of being harmed. But the idea that…if something did happen to me…that I would have never said the things to you that I should have. That…that I want to. There's so much I need you to know, Lucien." Jean was stumbling over her words. Such things were incredibly difficult for her to put into words, but she knew she must.

Lucien just smiled down at her. And before she could find those ever-important words, he said them first. "I love you, Jean."

Her breath caught in her throat at that. The words wouldn't come, then. But there was something else she needed to do, something that did not require her to find the words just yet. She took his hand in hers and led him away from the piano. He followed her very willingly as she made her way into his bedroom. Jean let go of his hand so she could close and lock the door behind them. The shadows were long in the room as sunset fell outside. She should have gotten supper on, but such things were unimportant right now. All that mattered was here and now, being in this room with him. And finally, she found her words. "I love you, Lucien."

Harry was losing control, and he could feel it. But for the moment, he did not care. He wanted just a little more. Just a little longer. He had Ruth in his arms, lying on a bed, kissing her after she told him she loved him. He did not want to let her go just yet. He needed the dream to last just a little longer.

He could not resist letting his hands wander underneath her cardigan to trace the lines of her trim waist perfectly accentuated by her dress. He desperately wanted to feel her skin and taste every inch of her, but he could not push too far, he knew.

But then Ruth pushed him back, rolling them over so she was perched on top of him. Her legs were resting on either side of his hips, causing her skirt to hike up. She was still kissing him, the scratch of her dress on his bare chest where her breasts pillowed against him. His hands journeyed down her back, trying to avoid where he wished he could touch her, resisting the overwhelming urge to grasp her hips and her bum and grind her against him. As it was, an erection would be extremely inconvenient at the moment, but his resolve was weakening. His hands found their way to her thighs and just up under her skirt to the tops of her stockings. Oh Christ, they were lace. She wore lace stockings. And the sliver of bare skin above them was soft and warm and perfect, and Harry nearly wept to feel the glory of her.

Ruth sat up suddenly. She was breathing heavily, smiling down at him from her position above him. Her hooded eyes were dark with desire. Jesus, did she know what she did to him.

"I love you, Ruth," he said. His heart was thundering the words, and he barely had the breath to speak them, but he needed to say it out loud. She said it, and it was his turn. He'd felt the truth of it for years, but always he had resisted telling her. It would have done no good to tell her before. She would have turned him away. She had turned him away. But now, for the time being, she didn't.

Her smile grew, beaming and brilliant. "I know you're not just saying that because you've got your hands up my dress and I'm sitting on top of you on a bed," she said.

He pulled his hands away as if burned. He'd honestly forgotten what he was doing, and he did not dare to press advantages with her. "I…"

But she pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him, laughing as she did. "It's alright, Harry. I'm only teasing." She leaned back in to kiss him softly, moving her lips from his mouth to his jaw and down his neck. "I quite like having your hands up my dress," she whispered before taking his earlobe between his teeth.

A strangled gasp came from the back of Harry's throat at that. His self-control snapped. His hands went back up her dress to rest on her hips and squeeze the firm flesh of her bum, moving aside the silk of her knickers to feel more of her skin. His hips thrust up off the bed against her, desperate to feel her and create more friction between them.

She whimpered against his skin. "Oh god, Harry!"

He turned his head to catch her lips in another fiery kiss. His trousers were getting quite tight. Only madness lay ahead, but he could not stop. Harry could not recall ever being so aroused and so filled with need for a woman before in all his life. He rolled them over again and pushed her dress further up her waist. It was too tight for him to reach up it any further. He palmed her breast over her clothes, desperate to feel more of her but being unable to like this.

"Wait, Harry," she said, pulling away from his kiss.

With a surge of horror, Harry realized what he was doing. What he'd been about to do. He climbed off her, standing three feet away from the bed, breathing heavily and trying to think about cricket and being tortured in order to quell his erection. "Jesus, Ruth, I'm so sorry."

She got off the bed, but Harry could not bear to look at her, terrified of the accusation and disappointment surely in her face now. She crossed over to him and put a gentle hand on his cheek, lifting his head to her. "Why are you sorry?"

"I…nearly…" He couldn't put it into words, it was too mortifying.

"I wasn't going to stop you, Harry," she told him. "Quite the opposite. I was going to get up to take my dress off."

His eyes went wide in shock. "But we…we're not married."

"Yes, I know that," she said with a small chuckle.

"You've never been married," he clarified. He did not want to say it out loud, but the reality was that Ruth had never been married and Harry was not going to take her virginity in his hotel room in Ballarat after he'd been shot in the arm.

Her hand trailed down his neck and bare chest and landed on the waistband of his trousers. "I was once engaged to be married," she reminded him. "And I know what I'm doing. And if you're not opposed to the idea, I think you should make love to me now."