"Jean, are you ever going to stop trying to save my soul?" Lucien's sardonic words rung out in the stale air of the prison room and Jean sighed, closing the Bible in her lap and folding her hands over the closed book.
The Ballarat prison had a rather archaic belief that their prisoners could be saved during their prison stint. The idea was that a good, Christian soul was not a criminal soul. For Lucien Blake, who had spent more time in and out of prison since his release from the British army than anyone else he knew, the idea of his soul being scrubbed clean was laughable.
But then the Church sent Jean Beazley to the Ballarat prison and he took one look at her blue eyes and trim waist and curled hair and decided that he would sit through every Psalm in the book if it meant Jean would hold his hand.
So, three times a week, he and Jean sat in his cell, pressed together from shoulder to hip, and talked. She insisted she at least reference the Bible every once in a while, but in truth, they talked about everything and nothing.
How her boys were getting on, the gossip around town, where she would go if she could go anywhere in the world, what he would do if he could take her there. These sessions were feeling more and more like courtship rituals than attempts to convert Lucien.
Jean put her Bible aside, turning to face him. "At this moment, I'm more concerned with that black eye you have than your soul. You've been picking fights again, haven't you?"
He raised his eyebrows at her, hands clutching at his chest in mock outrage. "You just assume I am the one who started it?"
She arched a single eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. He conceded, waving her off. "Yes, alright. I started it. He deserved it though," he added. "Going on about matters he had no business speaking of."
She sighed and she reached out, cool fingertips brushing the dark, swollen skin around his eyes. "Lucien…"
He covered her hand with his own, wincing at the added pressure on his eye, but the feel of Jean's skin against his own was worth every ounce of pain. "I know, I know. I promise I'll be a good boy. It's just so boring in here, Jean."
Rolling her eyes, she looked at him with exasperation and fondness. "You know you could just not commit crimes and avoid prison altogether?"
In truth, they both knew that Lucien's crimes were hardly crimes at all. Assault, trespassing, and drunk and disorderly. Even the assault charges themselves were in the name of protecting others and Jean, no matter what the law said, had difficulty in faulting him for that.
Lucien grinned at her, leaning in conspiratorially, "But where's the fun in that?"
Before she could respond–she was still deciding if she wanted to scold him or laugh at him–the prison guard was banging on Lucien's bars and barking at them, "Time's up! C'mon, Mrs. Beazley."
Pulling her hand away from his face, ignoring the way Lucien squeezed her hand before it fell from his face, she gathered her Bible and stood. "Until next time? I expect to see you in tip-top shape; no more fighting," she said sternly.
She smiled at him softly and turned to leave, the guard waiting for her was holding the cell door open for her impatiently. Lucien caught her hand in his, surprising her, and stopped her movements.
"Until next time," he murmured, ducking his head and pressing his lips to the back of her hand. Jean blushed, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart at the feel of his lips on her skin.
He let her go and watched her disappear out his cell and down the corridor, already trying to memorize everything about their encounter: the way she smiled at him, the warmth and taste of her skin, the sound of her laughter.
Jean Beazley, he decided, was God's last laugh at him: everything he wanted and everything he could never have while he was stuck in this prison cell.