All he wanted to do was sleep. But they wouldn't allow him. Squat powerful dogs surrounding his camp bed growling in deep voices. No sleep, never sleep. Sharp, harsh notes in his ears. Commands he cannot ignore. Dragging from his slumber. Limbs so heavy, washed with sweat. The smell of pain, death, and rot.

Orders pushing him forward, out of the dark tent, into a blazing sun, so bright he couldn't open his eyes. Burning his skin until blisters boiled across his shoulders and down his spine. He fell in step, man behind man behind man, all heads bowed. They knew what was coming. Time for a discipline session. Someone had to pay for their disobedience, their constant thieving and escape attempts.

Perhaps it would be his turn. He felt it had to be. Time and time again, he was brought to the yard and yet someone else was chosen for punishment or death.

Shame. The overwhelming shame at wanting to be picked. To feel the lash, the draining of his life, finally true deep sleep. Someone else was already tied to the post though, naked but for a cloak of red blood and black flies.

He had to try to save this soul. Rushing forward, ignoring the barking at his heels, he tugged the body loose and turned it. The lifeless face, vacant eyes, dried tongue. He knew her.

"Jean!" He started screaming and couldn't stop.

He had to find her. Thrashing free of his binds, he fled. He was in blackness, but a crack of light around the door showed him an escape. He tore at the door, his breath coming in great huffs. When he finally wrenched it open, and barrelled out, he ran into grasping hands, the barking again, a higher note-birds, pecking at him, wanting to feed on his flesh.

"Doctor Blake!" roared in his ear and he fell. Light, boundless, weightless, he fell.

Sister Evangelina sagged under this mass of man. His gasping mouth pressed to her bare neck, startling her. She tried to support him, but got no purchase on his sweaty arms. Bending under the weight, she felt her back twinging in pain. Then hands reached in, and with a chorus of female groans, he was lifted off her. In the dimness, she saw a great need in his gaze. She turned away; she'd seen it many times over the years, a man's need for a missing mother, something she could never give him.

"Bring him to my room," Mattie said. No, not back to his room, with the sweat-drenched bedclothes flung off. Sister Mary Cynthia moved into the room to change the sheets and make the bed up again.

"Should we ring up his wife?" asked Barbara, huffing under the weight of his left arm. Lucien was walking on his own, but he was staggering as though drunk.

Patsy, under his other arm, felt him tense at the mention of Jean. "No, he just needs to rest."

She was surprised to see Trixie staying back in the doorway to their room, clutching her dressing gown to her throat. Of all the expressions her face could hold, the distance Patsy saw there was the last thing she expected.

In Mattie's room, they led Lucien to a chair before the gas heater. Mattie immediately lit it and turned the flames up high.

He looked up at the circle of concerned faces gathered around him. When he said, "Thank you ever so much. Sorry to be a bother," they could see he was coming back to his body. Turning his shoulder to the fire, he signalled the women that he didn't want company.

Mattie shepherded them out, thanking everyone quietly in the hallway. "He has night terrors sometimes. From the war," she explained. Sister Cynthia brought her Lucien's dressing gown. He'd torn off his pyjama top at some point, and would surely be chilled now.

Trixie retreated into her room. The other women lingered, still unsure. Sister Evangelina adjusted her white cap and winced in pain.

"Did he hurt you?" asked Sister Julienne.

Squaring her shoulders, Sister Evangelina shook her head. "Of course not." She stomped off to her room.

Sister Julienne watched her go, surprised to have seen concern on Sister Evangelina's face when she'd looked at Mattie's closed bedroom door. With her own pang of worry, she decided to defer to Mattie's professionalism and friendship with Dr Blake, and made her good nights to the other women.

Once everyone drifted off, Mattie rejoined Lucien in her room. His head jerked up as soon as she closed the door behind her quietly.

"Do you have a spot of something?" he asked, his smile shaking.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

His eyes went dark. He turned to the fire, his hunched back putting off anger and resentment. Mattie chose to ignore this and draped the dressing gown over his bare shoulders. She pulled a chair close to him and took his hand. It was trembling.

"Is this the first dream you've had since marrying?"

He nodded sharply. "I don't want to worry Jean."

"She'll always worry about you," Mattie said quietly. "But I don't think it's something you can control."

His brow furrowed in anger, and she wasn't sure if it was at her, or himself. She suspected the latter.

"I know Jean wants to help you, but I don't think this is something she can fix. Or the bottle."

He made an expressive flicking motion with his free hand but didn't speak.

She tipped her head. "Have you considered talking to someone?"

"Best to leave it in the past," he grumbled.

"How well is that working?"

"It's better," he insisted.

She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Did Jean ever tell you about my drawings?"

"You draw?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a quick smile. "Yes. Not art like my mother. Just illustrations, really. But there was a time when all I could do was draw the pictures in my mind." He tapped his temple. "They were so strong."

"Where are they now?"

"I've put them away." His lips were a thin line. "I should burn them. End that chapter."

She made an involuntary movement. "Don't," she gasped. "I know it must hurt to look at them, but they're history. It can't be forgotten."

He leapt to his feet. "But I must forget!" He loomed over Mattie. "For Jean."

She saw that it was pointless to argue with him on this. But she had to say, "You should talk to someone."

He tried charm. "I'm talking to you," he said with a cheeky grin.

"Not someone who loves you. Not me. Not Jean."

His eyes narrowed. "I should get back to bed. Exhausted."

"Of course," she said solicitously. When he leaned in to kiss her cheek, she cradled his jaw for just a moment, hoping she could transmit all her concern and frustration in those few seconds.

He closed the door quietly as he left.

In their room, Patsy and Trixie couldn't settle. Patsy poured out a glass of whisky and held up the bottle to Trixie in a silent suggestion.

Irritated, Trixie shook her head. She tossed out one of her excuses that she now just said automatically when offered alcohol. "Not now, darling. Much too late. I'll have frightful bags under my eyes as it is." She took a turn about the room. "Really, I think that man should leave. He's so disruptive."

Sitting on the end of her bed cross-legged, Patsy sipped her drink and watched her friend with puzzlement. "He needs our help," she said evenly. She didn't dare share the real reason that Dr Blake was at Nonnatus House.

"Do you ever wonder why a girl like me lives with a bunch of nuns?"

Patsy blinked. She had, but something had always kept her from asking.

"Peace. Blessed, quiet, peace," Trixie hissed. "Men have their place, of course, but they can be rather loud and...annoying," she finished lamely.

"I shan't argue with that," Patsy said dryly, and drained her glass.

Getting into bed, Trixie leaned on her headboard and stared at the ceiling. "I know I sound a frightful cow, but I spent too many years hearing rows just like that. Sleepless nights...I thought it was all behind me, but here it is."

Closing her eyes, Patsy revisited the nights in the camp filled with endless moans, not just of physical pain, but emotional agony. "Yes," she said.

"Jean seems like a lovely woman but does she know what she's let herself in for?" Trixie said rhetorically.

Patsy stood and took her glass to the drinks tray, but didn't get another. She came back to her bed and pointed out, "Jean seems very strong."

"She'll need to be," Trixie said with finality and snapped off her bedside light.

In the dimness, Patsy found her way to her bed, and crawled under the covers, suddenly exhausted.

Despite her late night, Jean woke early. Alone in the chilly, dank room, she knelt by the bed and prayed, her knees painful on the bare floor. Even as the familiar words flowed through her mind, in a corner of her skull sat the frustration at last night. All that danger of discovery, and she'd come away with nothing new. Squeezing her eyes closed, she forced her focus back to her prayers.

When she went to rise, the floorboard under her knee bent and lifted a bit. She scrambled up but the splintered wood snagged her dressing gown. Sighing at finding herself stuck again, she worked the fabric loose, and the board shifted. She noticed a void under it. Prying the board free, she found a small black book underneath.

Even though she knew she was alone, Jean still looked around the room before taking the book to the small dusty window and examining it in the grey dawn. It was a ledger, with initials, dates, and totals. A blackmailer's records. Her face splitting with a grin, Jean whirled around. She'd dress and get this to Lucien as soon as possible.

The breakfast table at Nonnatus House was quiet and tense, each woman lost in her thoughts. Lucien wasn't present, but he was on all their minds. They were still shaken, and some, like Patsy and Trixie, had dark shadows under their eyes. The two women hadn't slept again after being woken. Only Sister Monica Joan tucked into her food heartily and seemed unfazed. She had watched the events from the safety of her doorway.

Mrs Turner bustled in, offering cheerful greetings but quickly saw the mood was low. "What's the matter?" she asked.

No one quite knew where to begin. Sister Monica Joan spoke up. "A storm burst over our house in the night, and rained down tears and peals of thunder."

Shelagh was confused. Just then Jean arrived, her face bright with her excitement. Mattie quickly rose from the table, and pulled her friend aside.

"Lucien didn't have a good night," she explained, her voice low.

Jean shucked her gloves, coat and hat. "Where is he?"

"Still in your room, I think."

Jean hurried up the stairs, her heart in her throat. She knocked quietly on the door, and when she got no reply, she opened it and slipped in.

The room was so still and quiet, she thought Lucien wasn't there. Then she saw the hunch of his shoulder under the covers and his tousled head on the pillow.

"Lucien," she called out gently. He didn't move.

She came around the bed and sat on the edge next to him. His eyes were open but he seemed far away. Although she was frightened, she just gently stroked his cheek and jaw, travelling between the smooth skin and prickly beard. Sweeping her touch, her fingertips stroked his ear and her thumb circled the hollow of his temple.

"Jean." He spoke so softly it was like a thunder clap.

"I'm here, my love." She pressed a kiss to his neck.

He rolled onto his back. "You are," he said with wonder. Then flung a heavy arm over his eyes. "You've heard I made a bloody row last night?"

"Mattie didn't say. She just said it was a rough night, and you needed me."

At the word need, his arm came down and his eyes went bright. Now his focus was fully on her. In an instant, she was suffused with desire.

It had been like this from their wedding night —no, before. As their wedding reception was winding down, and they'd wandered out onto the club's balcony for air. Dusk was just a sliver of deep blue on the horizon, a light mist was wetting the streets to shiny black. She'd swayed into his arms, smiling up at him, and that same spark was in his gaze. Yes, there'd been a kiss, but more. He'd surrounded her, wide palms caging her back, thighs bracketing her hips, leaning on the railing so the wind snared her hair and tangled it in his beard. She was caught, she was flying, she was pressed to the pulse in his groin and was suddenly contained of nothing but pure want. It had been lightning-shock and new. She'd thought that she'd awoken when he'd kissed her like this in the kitchen, but this was another, deeper blooming.

"I suppose we should head home," he'd murmured in her ear. The swirl of parting from the reception, the silent drive home, and then it had started.

These past few days without this sensation had been awful. Two weeks, and she never wanted to be apart from him again. Not just his company, but this intense intimacy, this heat under her palm as she smoothed off his pyjama top away from his heaving chest.

"Jean," he said again.

"What?" she challenged him.

His brow furrowed. Reaching up, he brushed her loose curls off her forehead. "I don't like feeling this way."

"Then don't," she said simply.

Lolling his head back, he stared at the ceiling. She drew lazy patterns with her fingertips over his heart. His chest began to rise and fall faster.

He was on her in one powerful movement. Sweeping her up and over him, onto the mattress. Her own breathing caught up with his thudding respiration as she fought out of her clothes with his help. He loomed over her, his elbows on either side of her head. He dipped down again and again for deep kisses, to suckle at her neck, bite her ears with his lips. His bulk blocked out the bright day streaming through the window, a solid tree canopy over her. She grasped at him, squeezing handfuls of rippling muscle, tugging at the hard ridges of his ribs and spine, pinching the roll around his middle. He was alive, in a way she'd never felt before.

Raising his head, he stopped, seemingly battling with some inner torment. She lay there panting, feeling exposed, but not just in her nudity. She studied his expression, fearful at this vulnerability. She'd never seen him like this in bed. Frustrated, angry, fearful. He turned his face into his shoulder. He was the one embarrassed; it wasn't about her.

"Don't —" She gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. "It's fine," she promised. She was a bit afraid at this danger she felt, but also excited. His body quivered with power and she wanted to feel that around her, in her-

He dived in again. There was none of his practised love-making, with the measured caresses and constant evaluation of her reactions. All the times before, he'd play her like a gentle love song on the piano, stroking the keys to coax out the right notes. But not now.

He hefted her thighs in his wide palms, opening and exposing her in a rush of chilled air. Cursing, he realised his bottoms were still caught up on his hips. She yanked them down for him, sinking her teeth into his collarbone. His answering growl reverberated through her body, like she'd pressed a big cat down with a single strong stroke of her hand.

When he thrust into her, there was no grace. She coiled off the mattress to meet the power, welcoming the pressure and edge of pain. He braced on the mattress and glared down at her, that fury exposed and heated. He was running away, but she was still with him.

He filled her in a way he'd never done before, pushing her more open with each stroke. Tears clung to her eyelashes, but she wouldn't shed them and have him think he was hurting her. It was an ecstasy of agony, to have so much and yet needing more with every thrust.

His breathing was ragged and pained. Whatever he was fleeing was close. Turning her nails into his back, she urged him on.

"Lucien, it's alright," she panted. "It's alright."

It was his tears falling. "Yes, yes," she promised him. "It's fine."

Ridiculous thing to say, but it must have been the right two words. His pants became harsher; his pain roiled and rose higher in his chest. Reaching lower, she gripped his arse and held him tight between her legs, forcing his thrusts to shorten and quicken-the sprint. Reaching above her head, he wrapped his hand around the headboard as though needing an anchor. She clung to him in the same way, and watched his shattering, a heavy iron hammer striking a stone and cleaving it into sharp pieces. The anger gone, replaced by such a vulnerability as she'd never seen from him. This was her husband, exposed.

His movements slowed. He clung to the headboard, keeping his weight from toppling over onto her. She smoothed his heated skin, up his chest to his neck with its rougher skin, and stroked her thumbs along his jaw, drawing his mouth down to hers.

Her soft kisses calmed him. He eased out of her, and she released a long sigh of discontent at the sound of wet flesh separating from wet flesh. Tears finally slid from the corners of her eyes. He was gone.

He settled to the bed beside her. When she ran her hand from his shoulder to down his spine, his body felt utterly relaxed and she was grateful, and a bit proud. She'd given him this.

But as she examined his body as she would look over her garden for weeds to pull or flowers to admire, her own limbs was still tingling and sparking, unsatisfied. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, lids half-closed.

"Feel better?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

He chuckled, an embarrassed sound.

"Good." She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

He peeked at her again. "But you..."

She was surprised that he'd retained that awareness. Perhaps she hadn't given him the complete hiding place that she'd thought. She lifted her shoulder in a shrug.

"Hmmm," he murmured. Rolling on his side, he gently brushed her touch away and began to place sweet kisses on her too-hot skin. Under the chin, at the point of the shoulder, at the top of her breast, over her navel. Nowhere particularly erotic and this made her body tremble with frustration.

"Lucien —" There was a whine in her voice. "Don't start anything you can't finish." Only after she said that did she think it sounded like a scold.

He didn't seem offended. "No worries. I'll finish this." The confidence in his words was more arousing than anything he'd done to her yet.

Then he rolled on his back, and she thought he was going to go to sleep anyway. Before her disappointment could be realised, he reached for her, leading her to mount his torso. Bringing her breast to his mouth, he nuzzled and stroked the tender skin with his lips and beard.

He'd been nearly silent but she had to fight to keep her moans low. As though she'd challenged him with her control, he moved to her nipple, tugging it, then salving the pain with his warm tongue.

She rocked against his chest, only to wince at the sting. In the moment, his passion had been exciting and stimulating, but now the tender tissues were protesting.

He noticed. "I'm a brute," he murmured, snuggling his face between her breasts.

She scrubbed his hair to hear him purr. "It was wonderful," she confessed, going a bit pink.

"Not quite wonderful enough," he noted, returning to the topic at hand. "Let the doctor take care of this."

"Oh, Lucien," she scolded, flushing hotter.

He cupped her hips and guided her higher to straddle his head. Confused at first, she gripped the headboard for balance. Only then did she notice that he'd removed the crucifix which had hung on the wall. The faded paint had left a dark cross on the wall where the piece had protected it. She looked away quickly when he began kissing the inside of her thighs.

So gentle, so soft, the touch of his lips was almost a dream. Almost. His breaths tickled and caressed her delicate skin. The prickle of his beard stimulated her in another way. She was afraid to lower herself and needed to do so desperately.

Just his fingertips nudged and guided her to his mouth, stroking aside her curls to find his target. Finally his tongue laced among her folds and her gasp sounded loud as a scream in the still room. His lips wrapped around her clitoris and when he tugged at it, his saliva tempering the pain, she had to bite her bicep from crying out. He repeated the pattern, increasing pressure as she became accustomed to it. He tried to slide a finger inside, but she gave a discontented grumble, still sensitive to that invasion. Understanding, he soothed her twitching muscles, smoothing along her flanks, stroking between her cheeks with the lightest of touch.

She had to rest her forehead against the wall, her mouth slack, utterly lost in the sensations. His orgasm had been a thunderclap. Her first one was a heavy wave lifting her, then pressing her hard to the shore.

"Oh, that's...nice," she breathed against the plaster as she cupped Lucien's skull, and gave it an ineffectual squeeze of thanks.

He didn't stop. Wet fingers joined his tongue to rub and caress, harder now that she was swollen as a ripened berry. His exploration found new spots that caused something painful and yet very necessary to build within her. She felt fear at this new sensation. Its exposure would be more than this moment, but would change their lovemaking from now on, just as the emotion she'd seen on his face had done. From the nest of her thighs, he was watching her; he would see. Uncaring, she was clawing at the wall now, her damp palms staining the shadow of the crucifix.

Perhaps she did call out. The rushing blood in her ears deafened her. She was sure that she'd nearly suffocated Lucien as she rode out the storm raging through her body. She'd have to apologise later. None of that mattered for this complete, pure joy.

"Oh Lucien." She sank to the bed beside him. "I do love you so."

His laughter was as happy as she felt. "I love you too."

~ end Chapter 13

E/N: I'll be taking a week off for with a family visit, but I'll be back posting on June 9th.