After the longest gap known to womankind, finally a third chapter. There's more to come, and I'll try to get on with it a bit more quickly! Many thanks to the usual suspects for their thoughts and advice.

It may have been the quiet that woke him. Lying spooned in the warmth against Jean, new daylight trickling through the gap in the curtains, he didn't notice it for a while, so intent was he on matching his breathing to hers. He loved to watch her sleep, a new-found pleasure.

Eventually he realised what was different. The engines had stopped, and against the gentle slap of water against the side of the ship, he could just make out the shouts of men at work and the squawking of seagulls looking for breakfast.

Adelaide. Even the name of the city made him smile. After three days at sea, it would be good to step off the ship, and he had plans for the day.

The sun was beginning to heat the pavement to shimmering as they stepped out of the taxi. Lucien paid the driver and turned to Jean, anticipating her reaction.

"You remembered!" She smiled slowly, first at him, and then at the memory.

"Of course." It seemed a lifetime ago they had been here last, back when they thought they knew how their lives would unfold.

Then, they had strolled through the Botanic Garden on just their second day in the city, Jean pushing Amelia in her pram, and Lucien running through the possibilities in his mind. Should he take one of her hands from the pram-handle? Or loop his arm around her waist? He had wanted to kiss her, but would that be too forward in public? He hadn't known.

In the end he had let his hand trail over the small of her back, tentatively moving them on, tugging her a little closer as his hand went to her hip. And once Amelia was asleep they had settled on a bench, in the shade of a huge fig tree, and he had asked to court her, with the old-fashioned manners she suspected he'd got from his father.

Hadn't they been courting since the day he walked back into his father's house? she had been tempted to ask, but of course she hadn't. She'd nodded, and smiled, and patted his hand and changed the subject. So much had been left unsaid.

Now she linked her arm through his and they set off, taking their time, not quite searching for their bench but knowing when they had found it. They sat by unspoken agreement.

"I should have asked you to marry me that day," he said. "We could have got a special licence and gone home married, and to hell with the gossips." His arm around her shoulder shook a little with old anger.

"Lucien," she soothed him, "it would never have worked. You would still have had to choose between us later when Mei Lin arrived." She leaned into him more. "And think of what the gossips would have said then - Dr Blake the bigamist!"

"There was no choice to make, Jean. I knew that as soon as she arrived, but how to manage it all? That I didn't know, and I'm sorry," He paused to kiss her temple. "My darling."

For once she didn't brush away his apology, or the endearment.

xxxxxxx

They walked on through the heat of the autumn afternoon, Lucien pointing out some of the sights of the city, which Jean had missed the last time, spending as much time as she had caring for Amelia.

As the day began to cool, they reached the army quarters where Christopher and Ruby had lived, several neat rows of small houses, across the road from the army base. No one did more than glance at the respectable middle-aged couple walking arm in arm along the street, even when Lucien suddenly caught her round the waist and pulled her into a kiss.

Smiling, he leaned back against the lamp post where he had stopped.

"I think this was where I first kissed you," he said, with a hint of a question in his voice.

Jean nodded, as she remembered that chilly evening walk back to the house after their first ever dinner out together. Her best shoes had rubbed at her heel, and the wine they had drunk had made her a little light headed, but Lucien's arm had steadied her.

"If you can call this a kiss," she retorted, giving him a brief peck on the lips, much as he had that night.

She laughed, grabbed his hand, and headed towards Christopher's old house. No one seemed to be living there now; the curtains were drawn and the patch of front garden was overgrown. Jean cupped her hands against the small glass panel in the front door and peered in. The hallway was bare and the floorboards were covered in fine dust.

Grinning at this discovery, she dived down the side of the house, leading him away from the street.

"You did better here," Jean said, coming to a halt just beside the back door.

She smoothed his beard with her palm and kissed him with more enthusiasm, her memory reaching for the feelings she had had that evening. It had been his last night in Adelaide, and he had come for dinner at the house; a slightly awkward affair, with Amelia fussing in Ruby's arms and Christopher unsure what to say to Lucien. Jean had kept glancing over at Lucien, anxious for him to make a good impression, careful to steer the conversation away from any points of disagreement.

With the meal over and the dishes cleared, Jean and Lucien had slipped out into the garden, out of earshot of the younger couple, and they had stood in this spot by the door, in the darkness, while he attempted to reassure her that he would be back for a weekend very soon, and she tried not to feel disappointed that so little had been resolved between them. A few walks in the park, a meal in his hotel...but she could surely never go back to Ballarat as his housekeeper again. How did he think they could court when they lived in distant cities?

He had leaned in for the now-expected goodnight kiss, and she had shocked him a little, she knew, by her response.

"I'm not made of glass, Lucien." She had kissed him back defiantly, eyes sparking at him. Her tongue darted out along his lip, the air between them shifting. Before she knew it, he had her pressed against the wall of the tiny house, one hand in her hair and the other on her hip, hitching her closer. More than fifteen years since she had been kissed like this; his lips soft and delicate against her neck and face, yet the sensation of his body pressed hard against her had been overwhelming.

In those few minutes in the garden she had rediscovered the power of intimacy. Enclosed between the cold, rough brickwork behind her and the warm muscular body in front of her, she had opened herself up to the rush of emotions. His tongue had slid against hers and her fingers had gripped into his sides, holding tight to handfuls of his shirt and waistcoat. She remembered her snatched breaths against his skin, her belly tugging urgently, as her body responded faster than her thoughts. His breath hot against her ear, her neck, and down to her collarbone, while his hand caressed from hip to thigh.

Now, months later, they stood in the late afternoon sunshine kissing more leisurely; unhurriedly and tenderly. They had a lifetime more to learn together. Lucien's hand had just strayed towards her breast, shaping his hand to its curve, when the clatter of shoes and a loud cough broke in.

Tugging his waistcoat hastily straight, Lucien turned to see a grey-haired woman, with a laundry basket on one considerable hip, leaning against the garden fence. She frowned at his loosened tie and sniffed.

"Excuse me," she said, in a tone that made it clear she didn't think she was the one who should be apologising.

Lucien stepped forward, charm firmly fixed in place. Jean meanwhile tried to straighten her skirt and pat down her hair. Her lipstick was probably beyond redemption.

"Ah, yes...Mrs...?" He extended his hand warmly.

"Mrs Bennett," she replied, unbending slightly.

"Mrs Bennett. I'm sorry for the intrusion. I'm Doctor Lucien Blake and this is Mrs Beazley." He drew Jean forward a little, aware that her eyes had turned steely, but completely failing to realise why.

He ploughed on, regardless. "We remembered the house from when Christopher and Ruby lived here. We were just curious." His smile was turned full beam on Mrs Bennett but her frown seemed to have deepened.

"Right. Well, we must be going." He sounded less confident now.

"Yes. I think you should." Mrs Bennett gave them both a look of deep disapproval and strutted away towards her back door. She had clearly changed her mind about hanging out the washing.

They walked back towards the ship in near silence. When a suitable bus appeared at the end of the street they broke into a trot to catch it, Lucien paid the fare and they slid onto a red leather bench seat together. He draped his arm around Jean's shoulder but she shrugged him off.

"Mrs Beazley?" she whispered, outraged but trying to keep her voice low. "Have you forgotten already that we got married last week?"

"Did I call you...?" His heart sank. Yes, he had. "I'm sorry." He looked so crestfallen it was quite hard to stay cross with him.

"Honestly, Lucien, to forget at a moment like that!" She frowned but he caught the hint of a smile following it.

"I am sorry Jean, it was just a slip of the tongue." His arm crept back around her shoulders. She let her head fall against him, tired. Her life had changed so radically in becoming Mrs Blake, but really she wondered, did he realise his would have to change too?

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dusk was falling by the time they were back on the ship, and then they had to wash and change into evening clothes, and go to dinner. It was nearly midnight when they finally returned to their cabin, by which time Lucien's bow tie was hanging undone and Jean was carrying her shoes in her hand.

Perhaps they were a little weary. Lucien took her shoes and dropped them beside the bed.

"You should go to bed," he said.

Jean went to look out of the window, but the sea and sky were inky black.

"So should you," she replied.

He did not reply immediately, but Jean saw him glance involuntarily towards the chest of drawers where he kept a bottle of whisky he thought she did not know about..

"If you need a drink, you'd better have one." Her voice was harsher than she had intended, and she saw him flinch.

For years he had scarcely ever fallen asleep sober. In the last few days he had had no trouble drifting into sleep in the afterglow, with Jean's arms around him, but he needed to know the bottle was there.

He smiled resolutely. "I need you far more than any whisky," he replied. He meant to sound light-hearted, but the words came out needy. She offered her hand and he came and stood behind her at the window.

"Then come to bed with me," she murmured. He wrapped his arms around her middle and breathed in the scent of her hair.

Lucien kissed the mark on the back of her neck, not sure whether he should feel ashamed that he had marked her. He was fairly certain she hadn't noticed the bruise from yesterday, but that soft skin where her shoulder met her neck was one of his favourite places. Guaranteed to make her lean closer in or groan, and he couldn't resist it.

Jean turned around in his arms and set to unbuttoning his cuffs and tugging his shirt out from his trousers. His dinner jacket was shucked off rapidly.

There was something irresistible about the determined way she undressed him: all that pent-up enthusiasm suddenly given freedom. But he wasn't going to be left behind. By the time she hooked her thumbs into the waist of his shorts, he had unzipped her gown and let it fall to the floor.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, holding her gaze. He wanted to take his time. She smiled as his eyes darkened, then gasped out a laugh as he lifted her and laid her on the bed.

He kissed her gently, languidly, letting his tongue slide so smoothly that she slowed with him. Her eager nipping on his lip became a leisurely exploration. He slid between her thighs and she raised her knees, welcoming his weight on her and skimming her hands along his flanks.

Jean noticed details she had missed in her previous eagerness: the flexing muscles of his back as he dipped down to kiss her more deeply; the strength of his thighs cradled between hers; and the soft prickle of his beard against her neck as he nuzzled against her.

He slid down the bed a little, kissing down her neck and across her chest, seeking out first one nipple, then the other, and he smiled against her skin to hear her groan in relief. He suckled gently, and his beard brushed her skin to pinkness. He swirled his tongue slowly around, flicking across each nipple until it puckered against his lips.

Jean squeezed at his shoulders, holding him against her, then tugging at his biceps to get him to kiss her mouth again. He obliged, gathering her in his arms while he worked his tongue tenderly against hers, deepening the connection until she wrapped her legs around his middle.

He rocked against her and she rolled her hips in response, the friction driving her to distraction. Her whimper made him pause for long enough to pull away from her and slide her underwear off, discarding it on the floor.

Then his taut length pressed against her. Slick curls rubbed softly against him as she opened her legs still further. He slipped inside her, just a little, and so naturally it hardly seemed deliberate. Jean writhed, urging him in further, but he had other ideas, and with an effort he rolled away from her. He nuzzled between her breasts, breathing in the scent of her damp skin, and ignored her whine at the loss of closer contact.

"Trust me," he murmured indistinctly as he nosed under her breast.

She gave him a sharp glance, but steadied herself. If he wanted to go slowly, she could do that too. He spiralled each nipple with his tongue again, noting the hitch in her breath. He slid further down, repeating the slow circles, but around her belly button this time.

In no hurry at all, he worked his lips down the smooth skin of her belly, then planted a kiss on the curls right between her legs. She gasped, flinching away as he had half-expected. Murmuring soothing noises, he smoothed his hands over her thighs, stroking away her uncertainty.

She knew couples did this, of course she did. She had overheard enough whispered conversations among her women friends over the years, but Christopher had never suggested this, and she had never known how to ask him to try.

Now she glanced down, catching Lucien's steady gaze. His look asked the question, and she nodded, though her teeth worked worriedly at her lip.

"Nice and slow," he whispered, to himself as much as to Jean, and turned back to his task.

He gently ran his hands from her knees, moving upwards, his thumbs swirling a pattern on her skin. He followed with his lips, tiny kisses on one inner thigh, then the other, smiling against her soft flesh as he felt her start to relax. Easing her legs further apart, he touched his tongue to her folds.

She sighed. His touch was so light she wasn't sure if she'd imagined it. The next pass of his tongue was firmer, and a shiver of arousal slid up her body. A swirl mimicked his movement on her breasts, but Jean quickly realised this was like nothing she had felt before.

He seemed to know when she needed him to nuzzle gently, exploring delicately with his lips and tongue, soothing away her lingering doubts. Then as the first groan escaped her, he led her further on, flicking with his tongue and brushing his beard firmly on her tender flesh.

She acknowledged to herself with her last coherent thoughts that this was a more binding intimacy than anything she had experienced before, and the pleasure clearer, as if outlined in sharper colours.

She searched frantically for something to hold on to, to keep her anchored in the storm that was approaching, but could only find his hair. She grasped his sandy curls hard, holding him tight against her centre, and his lips closed firmly round her clit.

She was beyond thought or articulation now, her hips jerking against his mouth as she gasped his name. Her legs quivered and shook as he slid two fingers inside her. Jean suddenly gripped his other hand from its place on her belly, and her voice rose higher as his strong fingers stroked deep.

He hummed his pleasure against her, and she surrendered to the flood of joy that pulsed across her, unfurling and spreading from where his fingertips were buried within her. As the warm waves receded he withdrew his fingers and slid inside her, catching the last flutters of her release.

She grinned up at him, running her thumb along his swollen lips and wiping away some of the stickiness from his beard. His measured thrusts became deeper and harder; finally he grasped the headboard, eyes screwed closed with effort, and Jean held him tight inside.

As his groans turned to a roar, she turned her fingernails into his back, scraping down his spine over the scar-ridges, and his remembered pain transformed into a surge of joy. He shuddered over her and fell, covering Jean completely for a moment, before he rolled away.

She stroked the middle of his chest, playing with the sparse blond hairs there. He smoothed her jumbled curls against the pillow.

"You'll sleep well now," she whispered in satisfaction, and kissed the tip of his nose. Her eyes were already drooping with exhaustion as she snuggled against his shoulder.

"Of course," he murmured, but he knew it was not true. He lay in the darkness, holding her while she slept, while the whisky bottle and its oblivion called to him from across the room.

As dawn broke he finally dozed fitfully.