Free With This Kiss: Part Two by Eloisa James Page A

laughter, the laughter of a woman who has never known pain or fear.
    Grace knew both pain and fear. She knew them because of him. In his dream, he danced with her, holding her tenderly and dancing slowly. Not like the whirling waltz he shared with Lily, but a waltz in which every touch fired his blood. Because it was a dream, a laudanum dream, suddenly they were at Almack’s surrounded by pretty ladies. Yet all the women faded into a kind of blurred prettiness, because the only woman in the room who mattered was Grace.
    Her hair was wound high on her head with ringlets falling down her back. Her gray eyes smiled at him with a look that said she found him as delicious as he found her. They turned in the dance again, slowly, and his thigh brushed her slender leg, sending a flare of pure erotic heat up his groin.
    He bent his head and brushed her lips with his. They were soft, rosy pink, and she was blushing because he was creating a scandal by kissing her in public. But he didn’t care about society. The only person he cared about was in his arms, and he found himself tilting her head, hungry for her, near to growling…
    The ballroom disappeared and they were on the lawn before the lake, under the spreading willow tree where he had watched her paint. But this time, rather than hugging him, she was lying on her back, laughing up at him. He had thrown all her hairpins into the lake, and bright strands of her hair were wound in his fingers.
    He felt mad, crazed with passion and love and hunger. Grace looked into his eyes, and she saw the raw feeling that he couldn’t control. She did something with the bodice of her dress and suddenly the whole garment disappeared.
    And there she was. Pink and sensual and loving, pulling him down to her. He didn’t have clothes, either, and their bodies met with lovers’ joy, with a delirious pleasure. He couldn’t pause to enjoy it, not with this pounding, driving need to be inside her, to own her, to know that she was his, rather than McIngle’s.
    He reared over her, savage and fierce, knowing his eyes were blazing down at her. All he wanted in life was to possess the woman who lay beneath him, who held his heart and soul in her hands. Her legs fell open, welcoming him. She was wet and sweet, and at his touch she arched her neck, a broken cry coming from her lips.
    She understood, she loved him anyway…
    Just like that, the moment slipped away and he was back in Almack’s, standing against the wall.
    Grace was dancing a slow waltz, but it was with McIngle. She was smiling at the Scotsman, and there was all the warmth and love in her eyes that Colin had always assumed was his. Assumed like a fool, because he didn’t understand what he had, and what he wanted.
    He should have crawled to her feet every time he returned to England. He should have written back to every one of her letters, three or four pages to each of hers.
    He should…
    The laudanum dream was fading, and he grasped at it, trying to keep the bright image from evaporating, because even though Grace was dancing with McIngle, he could still see her, watch her smile, that quiet smile…
    She was gone.
    He woke, feeling the pitching motion of the ship taking him back to England. In his dream, he had been whole and untouched.
    Now he was back to himself.
    He could never go to sea again. Over the years he had won three purses while in the Royal Navy. He was far wealthier than he had ever imagined. Still, he couldn’t take Grace from McIngle. When she saw him like this, she would leave McIngle, if they weren’t already married, and come to him out of pity.
    He would rather die.
    He got out of bed, tripped on something, and fell to the floor. It knocked the wind out of him; when he recovered enough to push himself up to a sitting position, he discovered that he’d knocked over his chamber pot, and that he was wet.
    He was… what he was.
    It was over. He had pissed away the best thing that had ever happened to him—the love of