With This Kiss Part 9

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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 st.u.r.dy 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 d.a.m.ned 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 ma.s.sive 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 la.s.s 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 d.a.m.n, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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.

"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 pa.s.sionate 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.

d.a.m.n, 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 l.u.s.t, 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 d.a.m.ned tired that he could feel darkness swallowing him up. He stood, b.u.mped 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.

A conversation between the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Ashbrook "Daisy!" The duke strode into his wife's sitting room. "What in b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l has happened to Colin? Your note said he was incapacitated, but now Featherstone tells me that he's on the way to Arbor House, so the lad can't be too badly off."

Theo-or Daisy, to her husband-looked up from the letter she was writing and, as always, her heart said, There he is. James stood in the doorway of her sitting room, an almost palpable air of command hanging around his broad shoulders. His hair was tousled and there were streaks of silver here and there, but time had only made him more beautiful. And more dear.

She rose and came out from behind her desk, picking up her gauze skirts and sweeping them with her. Her gown was a new one, calculated to drive a pirate mad. The bodice was a pale pink silk satin and the skirts were cream weave gauze, brocaded with roses that grew more dense toward the hem.

And those skirts? They were transparent. As the mother of a grown daughter, Theo considered herself too matronly to wear the sort of risque garments with which she had enticed her husband as a young woman.

Besides, James's eyes were only for her. She had no need for extravagant gestures-though that didn't mean she ignored the seductive power of clothing. Now she pushed forward her leg just enough so that he could see its shape under the frail fabric.

James glanced down and the corner of his mouth curled up. "You're smiling, Daisy, so I'm thinking that Colin is not incapacitated."

She smiled back. "He is suffering from blindness due to a cannon flare, but the doctor seems convinced it is temporary. He's wearing a blindfold, but he can take it off tomorrow."

"d.a.m.n." James ran his hands through his hair again. "I don't mind saying that your note terrified me, Daisy. I love that boy."

Theo drifted a bit closer. "It's actually quite good news, James. Colin is out of the Navy now. He's free."

James's eyes clouded again. "What a G.o.d-awful experience it's been for him. Griffin and I thrived on danger, being a pair of thoughtless rapscallions, but Colin's heart is in a different place."

Theo slipped her arms around his neck. "You weren't at war, James. You and Griffin were larking about on the high seas, occasionally fighting pirates. That's where the difference lies."

James's arms closed around her and he opened his mouth, likely to ask more questions, so Theo decided it was time for action. "I'm so happy for Phoebe and Griffin," she said, moving even closer so that her bosom brushed her husband's chest.

His eyebrow shot up and those big hands she loved so much slid a bit farther down her back. He brushed his mouth against hers. "Daisy, my dear," he said softly, "just how happy are you?"

"Very." She gave him another smile, thinking how lovely it was to be married so long that one's spouse could almost read one's mind. Although it was a good thing James couldn't truly read her mind, because she could almost hear the bellow that would come once he learned that his darling daughter Grace had gone off in a carriage with a young man who showed no signs of being in love with her.

Let alone if he knew that Grace had plans to seduce that young man.

"Ah." James's voice was a deep purr and his hands rounded her bottom. "As your spouse, I should point out that it's your marital duty to ensure that your spouse is as joyous as you are."

Theo pushed away her worries about her eldest daughter. "I live to please," she whispered.

It wasn't until more than an hour later, when James was lying on his back in bed, happy as any king, and Theo was lying half across him, her face against his chest, that she decided he was sufficiently prepared to hear the truth of it.

His bellow echoed down the stairs and made their butler, Featherstone, pause in his silver polishing, before shaking his head and returning his attention to the fork he held. The duke and d.u.c.h.ess were known for shouting at each other like bandits, then retiring to their bedchamber, even when it was broad daylight.

"What do you mean that Grace took off with Colin?" James wasn't lying peacefully on his back any longer; he was sitting up, glaring at her, his eyes as wild as they'd ever been as a young pirate.

Theo choked back a smile. "Grace loves him."

"What's that got to do with anything?" James demanded. "She's always loved him. Or she thought she did. She's got John now, a nice, solid lad. With a fine estate as well."