With This Kiss: Part Two

by Eloisa James

  Grace jumped to her feet. Her father would never allow her to travel with a man who didn’t love her, especially if the duke had the faintest idea that his daughter was planning to seduce the man in question. “Featherstone, please tell Mary to pack a small travel bag so we can leave immediately.”

  “I’ll send your clothes after you in the morning,” her mother said, as the door closed behind Featherstone. “You must write a letter to John before you leave.”

  Grace bit her lip, thinking of John’s adoring eyes. “Do you suppose that Lily could make him feel better?”

  “That’s a question for Lily and John, not for you. Tell him the truth, Grace. He will be bitterly disappointed, but it does a man good to have a broken relationship or two in his past. John is a bit too satisfied with himself.”

  “What if Papa sends after me the moment he hears what happened?”

  “I think,” the duchess said, with a wicked twinkle, “that you can count on me to distract your father.”

  And so it was that a slumbering Captain Barry was bundled onto one seat of the ducal carriage, and Grace sat down on the other. Another carriage followed with Colin’s trunk, and his batman, and with Mary, Grace’s maid.

  Grace’s heart beat quickly for the first hour of their journey. But at length, she relaxed. No one wants to think too closely about her parents’ intimate life, but it would take an idiot not to recognize that the Duchess of Ashbrook could wind a pirate around her little finger.

  It would be hours—perhaps an entire day—before His Grace knew that his daughter had disappeared.

  Six

  Colin had fallen back into a laudanum dream, even as he struggled against it, telling himself that he had sworn never again to enter the dangerous world that left him with an aching heart and tears on his cheeks.

  Colin was a man. Men don’t cry. Ergo, Colin didn’t cry.

  Except when taking laudanum.

  In this dream, he was in a carriage with Grace, which was interesting, because he couldn’t remember being in a carriage with her before. He was blindfolded, unlike his other dreams, but he knew she was there. Somehow, he knew.

  Since it was only a dream, he followed his heart and asked, “Are you there?”

  He whispered it, but he heard a soft rustle of her gown, and then she was next to him, bending over him. She didn’t wear perfume, the way her sister Lily did. He could smell Grace, a scent of lemon soap and woman.

  A cool hand came on his cheek, and she murmured something.

  He didn’t care what she was saying. This was his dream, and so far it was going the way he wanted.

  So he reached out and grasped her gown. She seemed to be wearing a traveling gown of some sort of sturdy fabric. He spared just a moment to commend his dream-making abilities. That was quite a realistic detail.

  Dream Grace was still saying something, but rather than answer, he pulled her toward him. She fell onto his chest with a little squeak. The voice in the back of his head was laughing: Graceful! Not that she would appreciate the pun.

  But it didn’t matter. He began to shift their positions, which was hard to do when he couldn’t see, and he spared a wish that his damned dream would give him his vision as he usually had while dreaming—but no complaining. He was too afraid that at any moment Grace would dissolve under his fingers.

  Finally, he had her underneath him. His body felt massive in relation to hers, and he realized that all those exercises on board ship had probably made him even more muscled than he usually was. Good thing this was just a dream. An English lass would likely be put off by his size.

  He cupped her face with his hand and tilted it toward his lips.

  This time he heard her. “Colin, do you know who I am?”

  “Of course I do,” he told Dream Grace. “This is my dream, after all.” Then he kissed her. Gently. The way a man kisses a woman whom he adores and hasn’t seen since he left for the sea.

  Her mouth was sweet as honey and sent an instant flame down his body. She seemed startled, frozen almost, but then she murmured something and her hand slipped into his hair. When they were both gasping for breath—nice touch of realism there—he let his lips slide from hers, and started kissing the line of her jaw, the arch of her cheekbone, the curl of eyelashes that had stunned him when she was only twelve and had made him feel like some sort of filthy old man.

  But now she was twenty…

  “How old are you?” he murmured.

  “Twenty,” he heard, which was like a benediction.

  “Not twelve?”

  He had to make sure of that. He’d have to throw himself out of the carriage if he had started dreaming about young girls.

  “Of course not!” Dream Grace sounded indignant and a little cross. Everyone thought that the Real Grace was docile, but he knew the truth. She put a wicked sense of humor into her paintings.

  He kissed her until she was whimpering, and he was rubbing against her, and then he came to himself enough to realize that he’d better move quickly. He hadn’t dreamed about Grace in weeks, and this time, he wanted to actually take her instead of merely thinking about it.

  Without a second thought, he braced himself on one arm, reached for her bodice, and ripped it free. There was a bit more verisimilitude to the whole affair than he had expected—in his earlier dreams, Grace’s clothing had simply evaporated from her body. But this time, he actually pulled her body up from the seat. There was a sharp sound of cloth tearing, and she gave a little shriek of surprise…

  The dream was going to dissolve; he could feel it in his bones. So he went back to kissing her, because if he couldn’t have it all, he wanted every moment of her soft lips that he could have. She tasted of tea and faintly of sugar and mostly of Grace. When he was kissing her, he didn’t mind that he didn’t have his eyesight; he didn’t need it. Everything he wanted to know he could tell with his other senses: the tremor that shook her body, the little moan when he nipped her generous lower lip, and the way she kissed him back, eager as any courtesan.

  Some part of his mind reminded him that a dream wasn’t real. But damn, he had conjured a wonderful Dream Grace.

  His hand slid to her breast and even though he had to tear away yet another layer of cloth—this dream was irritatingly precise—he finally had a breast in his hand. It was the most delightfully rounded breast he could have imagined. It was perfect. He nuzzled her, and then kissed her nipple, and the only thing that made him sad was that he couldn’t see it.

  Suddenly he remembered that this was his dream. So he demanded, “What color is your nipple?”

  Dream Grace was gasping in a way that made his whole body vibrate with desire. When she didn’t answer, he commanded, “Tell me.” He’d never heard that tone in his voice before. He sounded like a satyr.

  Since he was a satyr, he might as well keep going. He moved back just enough so that he could run a hand up her legs, under her skirts. She still hadn’t answered his question, but her breath was coming in little gasps, so he let it go.

  Dream Grace had a mind of her own, it seemed. Or maybe she didn’t know any more about her breasts than he did, because if he didn’t know, she couldn’t…

  But the complications of dreaming up a naked person slipped away from him, because now he had a hand running up the luscious curve of her inner thigh. Under his fingertips, her skin was like the softest satin he’d ever felt.

  He wanted to taste her, so he pushed off the seat onto the carriage floor. The floor was hard under his knees—again, congratulations to his imagination for realistic detail—but he wasn’t going to complain.

  He might have finessed it a bit if he was with a real woman, but this was his dream. He pushed the gown straight up to her waist and pulled off her drawers.

  Dream Grace babbled with surprise, but he refused to listen. His imagination was correct in that detail: Real Grace, with her lovely air of dignity, would never allow herself to be debauched in a coach. She wouldn’t be surprised, but outraged.
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  “This is my dream,” he informed Dream Grace, putting a stern note in his voice.

  Then he began licking her inner thighs, making his way toward heaven. He was almost there when the coach lurched and his lips fell directly on a silken tuft of hair. His mind told him the hair was likely a delicate red. His mind also complimented him on the clever way the coach motion had worked in his favor.

  Dream Grace sounded urgent now. “Trust me,” he said, silently telling his dream girl how much he adored and respected her.

  Telling her that he would make love to her in a queen’s bed or a stable, if she would give him a chance.

  That she was the center of his universe.

  It worked. Dream Grace caught his hand in hers, and then she kissed the tips of his fingers. The touch of her lips drove him mad.

  He lowered his head and ran his tongue over that little twist of hair again, pushing her legs apart to make room for his shoulders. He had never tasted anything sweeter. What’s more, he could hear Dream Grace’s breath changing, coming even faster. Her hand tightened on his, but he still had one free hand. He trailed his fingers up the smooth skin of her thigh, up and down, finally came closer.

  She twisted against him, murmuring words that Real Grace would never say… begging him, pleading with him.

  He loved it. Dream Grace had no dignity and no restraint. She was all sensuality, with desire that sprang from her heart and body.

  He ran a finger over her delicately. His hands had never felt so large and clumsy as they were at this moment. She screamed at his touch. The sound was pure pleasure, but he spared a moment to remind his imagination that it was his dream and virginity should have no part in it. He didn’t want that scream to have a hint of pain.

  Sure enough, Dream Grace was no virgin. She wasn’t in the least uncertain. She had one leg draped over his shoulder now, and she was arching wantonly toward his mouth. She was soft and wet… He slid a finger inside her, gasping at how tight and hot she was. She screamed again, so loudly the dream coachman could probably hear her, and then convulsed around his finger.

  He kept kissing her, luxuriously, slowly, with a kind of pleasure that he’d never indulged in before. She was gasping—panting, really—so he thrust another finger beside the first.

  Her cry was so sweet and passionate that he almost spent himself there, on his knees. One thrust of his fingers and she was shaking again, convulsing, driving him into a fever of desire.

  Damn, but he had a potent imagination. It was a good thing that he had thrown that laudanum out the porthole, because he saw now how easily a man could become addicted to dreams like this one.

  The only thing that annoyed him was that he couldn’t see her. But no complaining… He wouldn’t wait any longer. He stood, braced himself against the swaying coach, pulled his placket open and her thighs apart, and said, “I want you.” His own voice was so guttural, low and fierce, that he surprised himself.

  Dream Grace wasn’t the sort of illusion who argued with a man. As he put a knee on the seat, her arms came around his neck, and she pulled his mouth to hers.

  Colin positioned himself at the entrance to her sleek warmth and then slowly began pushing forward. This dream was amazing. He was ecstatic.

  No woman could possibly feel this tight and hot. No woman’s lips were that lush. No woman could turn his loins to fire with nothing more than a squeak, like a mix of surprise and desire.

  He pulled out, slow, and then worked his way back into her, shuddering with the pleasure of it. Then he caught her lips again, stilled because it felt so good, kissed her for a long moment, caught there between pleasure and movement.

  Suddenly he had a pulse of anxiety—what if the dream ended?—and remembered, at the same moment, that the woman who had put a leg over his shoulder didn’t need the sort of careful attention one might give a real woman. She was his, straight from his imagination.

  So he pulled out again and then thrust, roaring aloud at the pleasure he’d never imagined… hadn’t ever thought… His thoughts fell apart.

  He loved her; she was his center; he was nothing without her.

  For long minutes he had no other thoughts than the desperate heat in his loins and the blazing need in his body. He pumped fast, and then faster, one hand caressing her breast, the other balancing himself against the movement of the coach. He just wished he could see her face, see her head thrown back in exquisite pleasure, her lips open, her eyes glazed with desire… love.

  Was she with him? Did it matter? She was Dream Grace, after all… She would be with him. She was pure sensuality, pure desire.

  For a moment, he felt sad, missing Real Grace’s complex, thoughtful mind. But his beloved would never be this sensual. She was adorable, and grave, and dignified.

  The thought of Real Grace made it all roar out of him, all his love and despair and pure lust, moving from him to her in a storm.

  Then… his knees were weak. He slipped free, consumed with deep thankfulness that the dream had finally—finally—allowed him to make love to Grace, rather than dissolving her into thin air just before they joined.

  He was so damned tired that he could feel darkness swallowing him up. He stood, bumped his head on something, fell onto a seat. Grace was gone, of course. Just himself on a leather seat, alone again.

  He missed her with a piercing agony, but the darkness was coming to swallow him up.

  “Mine,” he said, shaping the word clearly, just in case he never saw Dream Grace again. “You’re mine, now.”

  He spoke to the silent air, of course. There was no one in his dream but him.

  She didn’t reply.

  Seven

  Lady Grace Ryburn wasn’t a virgin anymore.

  Not that the man who did the deed seemed aware of that fact. Colin was lying flat on his back on the opposite seat, one arm over his bandaged eyes, the other hanging free so that his fingers curled against the coach floor. He was dressed, but the front of his breeches gaped open.

  And his member…

  That was not a very attractive look, to Grace’s mind. She had quite liked how he looked, before. In fact, she had almost reached out to touch him.

  She had absolutely no wish to touch him now, but obviously, someone was going to have to button his placket before the coach stopped.

  Then she looked down at herself, slowly recovering from the shock of it. Her gown was torn. Her chemise was hanging off her shoulder. Thank goodness, she never wore a corset while traveling, because presumably he would have bitten off the whalebone stays with his teeth.

  Worse, there was a smear of blood on her leg. And she hurt. In fact, she hurt quite a bit.

  Tears pressed the back of her throat, but she made herself think it through. She’d enjoyed it, until the actual possession, so to speak—which she found most unenjoyable. It was rather surprising to find out how much she disliked that part of the marital act, since her mother had always led her to believe that it was great fun from beginning to end.

  Colin had had fun all the way through. But then she felt a flash of guilt. Lord knew whom he thought he was making love to. He hadn’t chosen her. The thought of Lily skittered across her mind and she shoved it away. No, he was surely thinking of a mistress, some woman he’d made love to before. Not Lily. That woman, whoever she was… she was his. He had said so, in a hoarse, possessive way that thrilled her to her toes.

  The jealousy she felt was blinding, and entirely unwelcome.

  Frankly, Colin had been like an animal, mad with desire. She shivered at the thought of how he had lost himself inside her, and then found herself shivering again with a delicious pulse of heat.

  The wonder of it was that she had somehow managed to seduce him, even though she could hardly congratulate herself on her effort. He had simply taken matters into his own skillful hands.

  Slowly, she sat up, wincing, and pulled off the remnants of her gown. Her mother had trained her long ago to be prepared for an emergency such as the luggage carria
ge going astray, so her traveling bag was in her carriage, and contained another gown.

  It took a few minutes to wiggle into it, and she didn’t have a spare chemise. But even her mother’s exquisite planning couldn’t cover all eventualities—such as the one where Grace had to hook up the back of her gown after being ravished in a coach.

  Since she couldn’t fasten her gown, she wrapped her cloak tightly enough around her to cover her bare back. Her maid would realize, of course. Looking at her discarded chemise and the gown, and particularly the blood staining her chemise, there would be no disguising anything from her maid. She bundled them back into the traveling bag, trying to think how she would explain it.

  She would simply have to hold her head high.

  Finally, she got up and went over to Colin. He was unexpectedly vulnerable, lying there with his eyes covered. Yet when she touched him, he stirred, and somewhat to her horror, his tool began to thicken and straighten, right before her eyes. She bundled him hastily into his breeches and did up the button placket, her own private parts sending her a twinge of dismay at the mere thought of how he had employed that—that thing of his.

  When they reached the posting inn where the Duke of Ashbrook stabled his horses, she assumed the haughtiness of a duchess and swept through the door before the servants’ coach had even entered into the yard. The innkeeper instantly escorted her to his largest bedchamber.

  “My husband, Captain Barry, will require a room of his own,” she told him. “And I should like a bath.”

  The innkeeper bowed. “Of course, Mrs. Barry.”

  Grace flinched at the title she didn’t deserve, but kept speaking. “He has suffered an injury and, unless he has woken, he must be carried from the coach. He is temporarily blind.”

  The innkeeper’s face twitched. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Barry. We will take the best possible care of your husband.”

  She nodded and he left.

  Grace sank into a chair, and then started straight back onto her feet. It hurt. Her most tender part felt… well… hurt. How did women put up with this sort of thing?