With This Kiss Part 15

It didn't matter.

She had heard him.

"I love you. I love you, too," she whispered.

Four.

Grace woke early the next morning, just as a cool, pinkish light came over the windowsill. At some point in the night she had pulled off her blindfold. Colin, her Colin, lay beside her, tousled hair falling over his face, an arm thrown above his head.

She was so happy that her heart hurt. Colin loved her; he had said so again and again. He wasn't pretending. She knew him better than anyone else in the world, so she knew that.

He was hers.

Just then he made a small noise and she saw his hand clench into a fist. His jaw tightened and he made a noise so pained that her entire body froze.

"Colin," she whispered, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"The blood," he said, turning his blindfolded eyes toward her. "It's running over my boots again. Send my boots to be cleaned."

"I will," she said, but his face remained anguished. So she moved and lay down on top of him, naked body to naked body. "Your boots are clean now," she whispered into his ear.

She could feel little shudders running through his body. "Did you wash off all the blood?" he rasped.

"I did," she told him. "I washed it all off."

His hand touched her back. A small smile curved his lips. She held her breath. If he didn't know who she was . . .

"Grace," he breathed. "My Grace."

She waited a long time, but his breathing became regular and he never woke up. Finally she slipped off his body, thinking hard. It seemed that war didn't go away once a man walked off a ship.

She finally eased from the bed and crept to the bathing alcove. She used the chamber pot hidden in a small chair, and then washed at the basin. It was interesting to discover a jumble of little red marks on her body, as if his kisses had burned a pattern into her skin.

She washed herself between her legs and her touch caused a tingle, but not of pain. Her nipples seemed a darker rose, perhaps from all those kisses. She frowned at that, and then pulled on a nightgown: it was literally the only thing she had left to wear, given that Colin had destroyed two gowns.

The gown was a muted pear color, sewn from a silk that shifted color constantly, going from milk to faint pink. The problem was that she had never thought of wearing it in front of a man, though, of course, it was designed for just that.

Now a look at the gla.s.s showed her that the gown was more like a sc.r.a.p of cloth with pretensions to being a garment. It didn't even reach her ankles, and the fabric was far too sheer. She crossed her arms over her chest. That was not acceptable.

It wasn't really a sound that warned her; it was more like a change in the very quality of the air. She turned and there he was, wearing nothing more than a twist of sheet around his hips. He was smiling at her, his eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with an emotion she'd never seen in them before.

"Where is your bandage?" she gasped. "Colin!"

"Six weeks today," he replied, holding up a black swatch of cloth with one finger. "But I am not throwing this out, Grace."

"Because your eyesight is hazy?" she asked, anxiety streaking through her body. "The doctor said it might be. You should put it back on."

"My vision seems absolutely normal." He emphasized the words. The look on his face was akin to the giddy joy that lit his eyes on seeing Lily at the ball. But it was a deeper, more intoxicating joy that bound love and desire together.

Grace smiled back, as delighted as he was. "Oh, Colin, I don't have the words to say how happy I am!"

"But perhaps I should test my eyesight. May I say how much I love that gown you're wearing?" He slowly looked over her entire body, starting at her toes, taking his time, enjoying it. When he reached her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she folded her arms in front of her chest again.

He shook his head.

"What?"

"Drop your arms, darling."

She frowned at him. "I won't. In fact, you shouldn't have looked behind the bathing screen. I'm certain that's not what married couples do."

"Who knows what married couples do? We're both new at this."

"And not even married," she said, remembering that.

"We will marry tomorrow morning. I'm guessing your mother will send a special license by messenger this afternoon."

She laughed. He was right.

"I've known the d.u.c.h.ess almost as long as you have," he remarked. Then: "Drop your arms, Grace." His voice was quiet, but his eyes burned into hers. There was a moment between them that weighed the years she had known him, the trust she had in him, her love.

She dropped her arms. And then, just to make him happy, she arched her back the slightest amount because her nipples . . . well, she knew he could see them.

She saw his throat ripple, and that was a victory of sorts. But he held up the black cloth again. "I'm not throwing this away, because last night was a revelation."

A flush swept up her cheeks. It was true that after he blindfolded her, she seemed to lose all dignity, all claim to being a lady.

Colin stepped forward and dropped a kiss on her nose. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Grace."

She bit her lip. His head bent and he brushed a kiss across her lips. His eyes closed, and thick lashes lay on his cheekbones.

"I am not," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I am nice-looking rather than beautiful, and I don't like fibs." She gave him a kiss to make up.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her face. "Can you read my eyes?"

"I think so," she said cautiously. She had certainly spent enough years watching his face.

"I love you. I want to marry you. I think you are the most beautiful woman in the world." His eyes were the color of the ocean at twilight: deep and tranquil, yet shining with a luminescence lent by the last rays of the sun.

"Oh," she said, rather foolishly. "I see."

"We both see," he whispered, rubbing her nose with his. "Your love kept me alive, all those years at sea."

She buried her head against his shoulder and held on tight. "Don't say that. I hate to think that you were in danger."

"I think my heart would have withered entirely, but for your letters. Will you come to Arbor House with me?"

She nodded, her cheek rubbing against his warm chest.

"We'll leave immediately. After eating."

"No."

"Why?"

Grace pulled away and walked a few steps, to the edge of the screen. Then she turned and looked over her shoulder. Who would have thought she had such a coquette inside her? Not she. But she didn't like the idea that Colin thought she was brave only when her eyes were bandaged.

His jaw looked tight. He wasn't a man who liked to be countered. Which meant it should be on her daily list of activities.

"Colin," she said, rather amused to find that her voice was throaty and soft.

"Yes?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Do you remember how you ordered me to lower my arms?"

"Yes." His voice deepened.

She let her hips swing as she walked from the bathing alcove. The gown helped, rippling against her skin.

Then she turned around and pointed at the bed. "On the bed."

"What?" His voice was quiet but with a dangerous undertone. Captain Barry was clearly not accustomed to being given a direct command, except perhaps from an admiral.

The bashful side of her was anxious, but Grace ignored her own burning cheeks. "I order you to lie down on the bed."

There was a moment of dangerous silence in the bedchamber. But she raised her chin and met his eyes. She didn't want to be forced to obey a man, even a man whom she loved as much as Colin. He was used to captaining a ship, and she understood that he had been the leader onboard. But not on sh.o.r.e.

Instead of obeying her, he walked over, tipped up her chin, and stared down into her eyes. To her extreme annoyance, he was smiling. "Grace," he said quietly, "are you making a point?"

She just stopped herself from chewing her lip. "Perhaps . . . Yes."

"You don't like being told what to do, any more than I do?"

She nodded. "You were a captain, Colin. But I am not a member of your crew. We're to be married. I don't want to be ordered about as if I were no better than a midshipman."

The spark in his eyes was positively wicked. "What if I promised that I wouldn't order you about . . . most of the time?"

"Never," she said firmly. She'd had years to examine the relationships of men and women from the edge of the ballroom and the quiet side of a dinner table. Some men felt free to command their wives to do as they wished. She'd even seen one particularly horrid fellow order his wife not to eat another sweet, because he didn't care for her hips.

A man would never behave like that to her.

Colin nodded. "May I order you to leave a house in case of fire?"

"Yes."

"And will you do the same for me?"

"Of course."

He grinned. "I am looking forward to being saved by you."

She smiled back, rather uncertainly.

Then, with no warning, Colin scooped her up into his arms. Grace blinked and wound her arms around his neck. He smelled so good, with just a hint of the sea still hanging about him. "I only want to order you about in the bedchamber," he said, growling it.

"Oh," she breathed, her whole body jolting into sensual awareness.

He bent his head and nipped her lip. "I don't need to be the captain on land, Grace. I don't even want to be."

He smelled so good. One whiff of potent, sweaty man, and her legs turned liquid. "I suppose I could allow it sometimes," she said, her voice coming out a throaty moan. "If you want it that much."

"I do want it, Grace," he stated. His eyes burned into hers. The question wasn't even a question; one look from him like that, the look that told her that he found her more desirable than anyone in the world, that he loved her so deeply, that he wanted to . . .

"All right," she whispered giving in.

He carried her over to the bed, and then put her on her feet. "But first, was there something you wanted, Grace?"

Morning light was pouring in the window now, emphasizing that broad chest. His sheet had fallen, and he was so masculine, so perfect. No wonder she had never managed to paint him. The thought made her feel painfully shy.

"I'd like to paint you," she said, offering it up because she couldn't shape those other words he wanted.

He grinned at her and threw himself on the bed. As she watched, he rolled on his back, just as he had the last night, and spread his arms wide. "I'm on the bed, Grace. As you ordered."

It sent a bolt of pleasure through Grace just to see him there, his eyes glinting. He would do whatever she wanted; she knew it instinctively.

But at the same time, just as clearly, she could see that the position didn't come naturally to him. Maybe it would years from now. Just at the moment his muscles were rigid, for all he was smiling. He needed to be in control. There had been too many rivers of blood over his boots, too much danger coming from all directions.

"Just a moment," she said, running back into the bathing chamber and returning with a basin full of fresh water, and a clean cloth. Then she climbed onto the bed and knelt beside him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Caring for you," she said. She wrung out the cloth and began washing his shoulders. She drew the cloth over the wide shape of his chest, stroking him softly down the rippled muscles of his stomach.

He didn't make a sound and neither did she, even when she reached his groin and his body involuntarily shook and arched into her hands. She kept going, washing every inch of him, loving him as she did it.

When she reached his legs, she washed his thighs, learning the shape of a man's leg . . . so different from the slender shape of her own. His hair was rough under her fingertips, the contained power in his thighs unbearably erotic. She kept going, letting her hair fall over her face so that she didn't embarra.s.s herself.

But without a word he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. She knew that he could see raw l.u.s.t on her face, even as she washed his feet.

When she finished, she dried him off with a soft towel, touching every part again with a softer stroke, a sweeter kind of torture. Her breath came fast by the time she reached his shoulders.

Neither of them had said one word. She hadn't met his eyes. She had no idea whether he remembered asking her to wash off the blood.