V:

Lucien had no idea what was going on in Jean's head, and it frightened him. Since Aaron Abram's return, she had been actively seeking out reasons to not be alone in the same room with him, it seemed. And whenever they were alone, she would not engage him in conversation.

Yes, maybe… maybe he had overstepped the mark by some margin. He had clearly mistaken her upset as having been about Desiree, and how could he have been so blind? Clearly, she was still in mourning for Christopher – how could he have forced himself on her like that?

And yet…

She had kissed him back, hadn't she?

Or had she played along because she was afraid if she didn't, there would be some sort of retribution?

He loathed himself; he'd had time, so much time, to prepare himself for the eventuality – the probability – that Mei Lin and Li had suffered the worst, and when it had proven to be so, he had been ready to steady his feet beneath himself and move on. Yes, it momentarily knocked the wind out of him, but… he wasn't insensate. He wasn't paralyzed with grief anymore, not like Jean seemed to be.

And he watched her, moving around the house, doing her cleaning and her daily chores and marveled at her strength and beauty, her courage and –

He wanted her with a fierceness that burned low in his belly, shaming him.

Jean was gentleness and grace personified, but with a strength that carried her through every situation. Her step was sure and she never hesitated, her smile was warm and ready, and love and kindness all but shone out of her like sunshine. He had watched her movements, breathed in wonder and lust as her clothes pulled just so when she stretched to reach, or bent to get into a space, and as she fussed and worked, he wondered what it would be like to bed her, to have her showing such attention's detail to him.

For that, he was ashamed. To want such pleasure, when she was suffering… it was monstrous, inhuman even. He was no better than the men he had fought in the war, and it pained him, this knowledge. That, deep in his heart, he truly was no better a man than any other.

"Lucien, I'm sorry to disturb you," Jean said, "but I need the cushions."

He stared up at her, blinking. "What?"

"The cushions. I need them," she said, gesturing at the sofa. "To take them outside and beat the dust out of them. Can I –"

"Oh, yes, of course," he stammered, jumping up and letting her gather the decorative cushions. "May I help?"

"You mustn't go to any trouble on my account," Jean said, her tone crisp. "Can I get you anything before I go outside?"

"No, I'm quite all right – Jean, can we talk?" he said, trying to still her for just a moment by catching her wrist.

She stopped, staring at him, stricken. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Lucien," she murmured.

"Will you let me apologize at least?"

"There isn't anything to apologize for: it was my fault," she said, pulling out of his grasp and walking away with the cushions.

He waited a minute, then followed her to the back garden, watching her hang the cushions on the washing line with her clothespins. Her shoulders, normally straight and proud, were slumped in defeat, and her chin wobbled as she finished hanging the last cushion. She swiped at her eyes, and grabbed the carpet beater, taking a furious whack at the first cushion.

He hesitated going out there when she had something she could beat him with, but he took the chance anyway. "Jean –"

"Lucien, there is nothing to say," Jean said, smacking one of the cushions so hard it came unmoored and flew partway across the garden. "Oh, blast it!"

He ran after the cushion and saved it from the dirt and grass, brushing off the velvet and bringing it back to her with a small smile. "There, good as new," Lucien said proudly, handing it back.

Jean smiled gently and murmured, "Maybe not, but it will have to do." She took the pillow back and held it in her hands between them for a moment before lifting up on the balls of her feet and kissing him lightly on the lips, catching him off-guard. He reacted instinctively, catching her and kissing her back, but not deepening the kiss. She pulled away and whispered, "Lucien… we can't."

"Jean – "

"You know you aren't for me; you never have been," she said very softly.

"How can you possibly say that?" Lucien said, his brow creasing as he leaned toward her.

"Lucien, your wife was the daughter of a diplomat," she murmured, leaving his arms and hanging up the cushion again. "Monica was the daughter of a businessman. The women you courted in Europe were all women of society. I'm… a farmer's widow," Jean said, her voice low and sad. "I have never been for you."

"Jeanie, don't be ridiculous," he said, taking a step closer. She instantly took a step back, and he raised both hands in surrender. "Jean… please."

"I would hold you back and we both know it," she said, her voice very small.

"I know no such thing."

"You're going to find some nice girl with money and the appropriate social connections and –"

"Jeanie," he said very softly, gently, reaching out to put his hand on her waist, relieved that she didn't pull away or slap him. "I don't want just some girl. I want you."

She exhaled, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. "You shouldn't."

"I do," he insisted. "And that isn't going to change. But if you…" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "If you don't want me as much as I want you, Jeanie… I'll… I'll leave you alone."

Her eyes opened and she jerked up stiffly. "I want you," she hissed. "More than you want me, Lucien. But I can't have you."

"Says who?" he shot back.

She snorted a bitter laugh. "Do you think anyone in this town will ever let me get away with stepping out with you? Or worse – what if we're indiscreet and I turn up pregnant? No, Lucien, I can't have you."

"So we'll be quiet about our courting, and if you… fall pregnant… we'll marry," he said softly. "And I'll take care of you and your boys and anyone else that may come along."

She stared at him, then shook her head and laughed again, a crazed sound that put his nerves on edge. "And have you resent me for pushing you into something you didn't want in the first place?" Jean asked. "Christopher didn't want to marry me, you know. He only did it because it was his child, because it was the correct thing to do. And he was so mad when I lost her…" She pulled away from him, crossing her arms across herself defensively. "Then the boys came along and we were stuck – and he resented every minute he had to spend with me. We had a fight the day before he enlisted, and that was that. He went to war and I never saw him again. I never got to tell him I was sorry. I never got to tell him that I meant to do better."

"Jeanie…"

"I should have married you," she whispered, her voice barely carrying.

"Jean –"

"We fought because he knew I was in love with you; that I'd always been in love with you," she said very quietly, shame coloring her features. "He knew you were a soldier, that you'd been taken prisoner by the Japanese, and that I prayed for you and your family every day, and he… he started shouting about how because he wasn't a soldier, did that mean he wasn't man enough for me? And then –"

"Oh, sweetheart – it's not your fault," Lucien said, pulling her back into his embrace and holding her. He could hardly credit her words about the depths of her love and affection; they seemed too convenient to possibly be true, but Jean didn't lie. "I love you, too. I can't stand seeing you torture yourself like this."

"I can't let you waste your life on me," she whispered.

"Jean…"

"I'm not –"

He steadied her and kissed her ever so gently. She hummed and leaned into him, and he smiled softly. "No one needs to know but us," Lucien promised. "And we'll be very careful. But I love you, Jeanie."

"God help me," she breathed. "I love you, Lucien." She kissed him back, with none of the primness of a shy young miss, but with the desperation of a drowning woman. His hands slid down her back, cupping her bum, holding her as close as decency allowed, and her fingers tickled through the hair at the nape of his neck as they kissed rather indecently. She pulled back abruptly and gasped, "You'd better get inside before your mother thinks to look for you – and I'd better finish these cushions…"

He stared at her, love drunk and dazed with the beginnings of arousal. "You want me to just – after – Jean!" She blushed, very prettily, and he groaned low in the back of his throat. "All right, all right –" Lucien conceded. "But tonight…"

"Tonight, I'll be yours," she promised very softly.

TBC...