“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 breasts, 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 duchess 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 shore.
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.”
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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 embarrass herself.
But without a word he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. She knew that he could see raw lust 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.
By the time she had finished drying the strong column of his neck, Grace didn’t know what to do next. Her body felt wrung with desire. Every time she touched him she felt a stab of heat in her body. And yet, she didn’t know what to do.
“Would you order me to do something else?” Colin asked. His voice was low and inviting. “I’m at your service, Grace.”
She shook her head, feeling desperately embarrassed. It was different, making love when the sun was streaming in the windows. She was overwhelmed by a feeling of impropriety.
Colin made a stifled noise and then surged up, hauling her into his arms. A moment later she found herself tucked under his body, and all the anxiety and embarrassment drained out of her.
Her legs were spread, pressed to the bed by his weight, and her silk gown was up around her thighs. “I want you,” he growled.
Grace’s heart thumped at the wildness that entered his face. This was the Colin only she saw: the one who existed only for her. “I’m yours,” she breathed, reaching up to give his ear a little bite.
In response, he pushed down the bodice of her nightgown. His mouth at her breast drew a cry from her. When he added in a hand, kneaded and suckled and caressed her, she bent her knees and began to plead… Instead, he moved back and lowered his head between her legs.
Grace stared at the ceiling, hardly seeing the boards over her head while Colin licked and petted her, making her writhe and cry out, over and over.
Finally, he said, voice dark and lust-filled, “Fair warning. I’m going to give you an order, Grace. I want you to come.”
So she did.
And then he put her on her hands and knees and tucked her under his big chest, and touched her again until she was whimpering, and finally, finally slid into her.
It was wild and fierce and a bit out of control. By the end, they were both panting and covered with sweat and altogether improper.
After bathing, they ate breakfast in their room. Thankfully, the carriage sent by the duchess arrived, along with some clothing. Grace’s maid reappeared, broken wrist in a sling. They sent her and Ackerley back to London, and continued on to Arbor House by themselves, with no more escort than the coachman and a groom.
“We’ll send him to the village, and we can be alone in the house. I’m sure the servants have all been sent home; that’s what my mother always does when they are not in residence.”
Grace laughed. “And what shall we eat, Captain Barry?”
“Mr. Barry now,” Colin said. “I will find someone to cook. I will provide for you always, Grace.” She gave him a kiss. “And I will be your maid,” he added.
In the carriage, he decided to practice unlacing her gown. But one thing led to another… “Maids never rip their mistress’s clothing,” Grace informed her almost-husband. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t terminate your service.”
He laughed, but his eyes were still hungry, and then he reached up and banged on the roof of the carriage, and shouted, “Find an inn, Grimble!”
“We’re only six or seven hours from home,” Grace pointed out.
“We’re stopping for the night. I want you again, Grace. And I’ll be damned if I take my wife on these bloody carriage seats one more time.”
“I’m not your wife yet!”
“You will be tomorrow morning.” He hauled her onto his lap and tucked her against his chest. “We’re stopping in the next village, and in the morning we’ll be married by the vicar.”
“Colin!” Grace said, laughing, and trying to ward him off. It wasn’t fair that he merely looked at her, and a melting heat swept down her body.
“Grace.”
His eyes were dark with fierce passion, and she couldn’t resist him. Any more than she could later that night, when they were ensconced in the bedchamber at the Rose and Thorn in the village of Piddlepenny, and Colin took out the blindfold again, and she found herself face down over his lap while he…
And then she found herself doing things that would make an experienced courtesan blush.
They both loved it when she begged him for more, her voice husky, imploring him with broken whimpers and throaty moans.
But toward the end he pulled off her blindfold, so he could look into her eyes while he stroked into her. Colin had never felt more grateful for his recovered vision than when he met Grace’s eyes and saw the trust and abiding love that would be his for all the days of his life.
“I love you.” His words came out in a husky whisper. “I love you so much that I wouldn’t want to live if you leave me, or die before me, Grace. The earth would be dark without you. You are everything to me. Everything.”
She cupped his face in her small hands and kissed him so sensually—and so lovingly—that he finally understood that he had been given the greatest gift that any man could possibly receive.
Yes, he’d lost years to warships and battle…
But none of that mattered because Grace was his.
Henry Dobson, vicar of St. James Church in Piddlepenny, raised an eyebrow at the two people who had just handed him a special license, signed by no lesser personage than the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Piddlepenny might be a small town, but Reverend Dobson did not consider that the size of his flock meant that the archbishop should infringe upon his ecclesiastical authority. He did not approve of hasty marriages.
“This is most irregular,” he stated. He was suffering from a bad cold and wanted nothing to do with something that looked very much like an elopement.
In fact, he was growing a bit cynical about weddings in general, having seen too many in the last years that were (in his opinion) entered into for the wrong reasons. So he ushered the couple into his study with the firm intention to turn them down, archbishop or no archbishop.
Clearly, they were gently born, and of comfortable means. They could travel down the road to someone else’s parish. He was not the man to put together couples who married without the approval of their family or without due attention to the gravity of the ceremony.
“Lady Grace,” he said now, repeating it. He’d never met the daughter of a duke before, but he was pleasan
tly surprised. She didn’t seem terribly high in the instep. In fact, she was holding hands with her beau, quite as if they were the butcher and his beloved.
“My father is the Duke of Ashbrook,” she said, nodding.
“And Mr. Barry,” he said, turning to her fiancé.
“Yes.” No title. That was interesting.
“Lady Grace, is your family aware of your intention to marry?”
She smiled at him, her eyes clear. “Yes, they are, Reverend. My mother obtained the special license you have before you.”
Against his better judgment, he actually believed her. He would have thought a daughter of the Duke of Ashbrook would be married by a bishop, rather than by special license. But what did he know of polite society?
Very little.
“Mr. Barry, do you have the means to support a wife in the manner to which she is accustomed by birth?”
Barry met his eyes straight on. “I am unworthy of Lady Grace in every way possible. My birth is humble in comparison, my patrimony minimal. However, I was recently discharged from the Royal Navy. As captain of the Daedalus, I was lucky enough to be awarded three purses. I will be able to support my wife without aid from her family.”
Dobson had no doubt the man had been a fierce officer. He had the look of a warrior. And again, his eye was caught by the way the two held hands, so tightly… almost desperately… certainly tenderly.
Lady Grace beamed at him. “Mr. Barry was the youngest officer ever to be made captain in the Royal Navy. He is the adopted son of Sir Griffin Barry, and far too humble in recounting his station.”
“So you are Captain Barry and Lady Grace Ryburn?”
Barry shook his head. “I have been granted an honorable discharge. It’s Mr. Barry now.”
Again Dobson’s eyes were drawn to the hands so tightly clasped before him. Barry must have been injured, some disability that didn’t show. Dobson began to feel a bit more sympathetic. “Marriage,” he observed, “is one of the most weighty ceremonies in a man’s life.”
“Nothing will ever be more important to me,” Mr. Barry said quietly.
Dobson cleared his throat. He wasn’t accustomed to this sort of emotion. “As it says in the Lord’s book, to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” He paused, organizing his thoughts. This pair, charming though they were, ought to return to their own parish and post banns. A ceremony without friends or family was no way to start a life together.