Mistletoe Mistress Page 4
The first time he parted her nether curls and touched his tongue to her swollen clitoris, a wild cry tore from her throat.
“The inn walls aren’t overly thick,” Arran growled. “Must I gag you to prevent a mob of saviors invading?”
“N-no, sir,” she said, not wanting him to stop and deprive her of the kind of pleasure she’d scarcely dreamed of, even when the thought of being gagged was most intriguing. Her first orgasm had been intense. But this promised so much more.
Finally, he bent his head again, his fingers holding her soaked pink folds open as his tongue fluttered and lapped at her clitoris. It was both heaven and hell, as he took her to the brink of climax again and again, only to move away and kiss her inner thighs, push his tongue inside her cunt, or most forbidden of all, lick her shockingly sensitive back entrance. All she could do was bury her face in the curve of her arm to muffle her guttural sounds of bliss as she reached each new and dizzying height.
“Something to say?”
Weakly, Rachel raised her head and stared at him. Even with only the light of the fire, his gray eyes glittered like stars, his lips damp with her fragrant wetness, while his strong hands easily held her in place. At this moment, he owned her body and soul, her world reduced to this bed and one excruciating need.
“Take me,” she begged. “Please, Arran.”
He made a raw, primitive sound, and rose to his knees. Taking his engorged manhood in hand, he fisted it, and pearly drops appeared at the head. “Is this what you want? My cock deep in your tight little cunt?”
Rachel moaned, but remembering his instruction, didn’t let go of the headboard. Instead, she lifted her hips, offering herself for plunder. “Yes. Please. Oh God, please.”
Leaning over her, Arran braced himself on one hand while he rubbed the head of his cock against her sensitive flesh, coating it in wetness and making her gasp. “I will go slow to start. But then I will fuck you rough and hard, before spilling on your belly. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. Hurry.”
As promised his initial penetration was measured and gentle, aided by her copious juices, and yet the uncomfortable feeling of being stretched and stuffed full made her groan. Arran paused, rocking against her, withdrawing and easing forward to help her get used to him, and eventually her inner muscles relaxed and allowed him a slick, exquisite glide.
“That’s it, darling,” he said hoarsely, bracing himself on his elbows and thrusting a little faster. “Lift your legs and wrap them around my waist.”
Darling.
Rachel obeyed even as her eyes stung at the unexpected endearment, a choked cry escaping when the change of angle allowed him to sink even deeper and rub against her clitoris. That chaotic, splendid tingle was building again, except this time far stronger, and as Arran took her harder and harder she ground against him, desperate for release.
“More,” she pleaded.
“Come for me,” he commanded. “Come all over my cock.”
As if flame had reached gunpowder, her world splintered and hurled her over the edge into writhing, bucking ecstasy. Fortunately, Arran’s hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her abandoned scream, and he thrust once, twice, three more times, before wrenching himself out of her and lashing her belly with spurts of hot seed. When he collapsed on top of her his body was a heavy weight, yet she welcomed it, disobediently letting go of the headboard to clasp him to her and stroke his hair.
Eventually, he moved and settled on his back, one brawny arm holding her against him so her head rested on his chest. Rachel tried to stay awake, wanting to savor the moment for as long as possible, but lulled by orgasmic exhaustion and the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart, she soon succumbed to sleep.
* * *
It was dark and cold when Arran woke, and he almost reached out for the bellpull to summon assistance. Except he wasn’t at his sprawling estate in Lincolnshire or even the mausoleum of a London townhouse. He was at a simple inn somewhere outside of the capital, naked in bed with a stranger, and still marveling at the most satisfying bed sport of his life.
He’d been insatiable for Rachel, fucking her twice more in the night after that intense first coupling. The faint sting of fingernail scratches on his shoulders were a reminder that she had been his eager partner in passion, pleading for his tongue and fingers and cock, welcoming him inside her tight, wet heat, crying out his name as she came again and again.
But today was Christmas Day. And he had to let her go.
Arran scowled. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Sure, it had been a night like no other, and when he’d lay there spent, his chest cushioned by her breasts, while her fingers stroked the back of his neck, he hadn’t wanted to move, ever. But Rachel had her own life to return to, and he was expected in London to meet his contracted fiancée and make the formal announcement. It didn’t matter that it was now infinitely harder to imagine himself married to Lady Sarah, dispassionately selected by his parents for no other reason than her suitable lineage. Every Marquess of Kyle had wed in such a manner. He didn’t have the luxury of ‘Mr. Elliott’ to choose a woman he truly wanted, to wake up each morning with her warm naked body pressed close after hours of sexual excess.
No, his foreseeable future was cold duty.
“Arran?” said Rachel sleepily. “Is something wrong?”
Startled, he glanced down to see his hand had tightened on her shoulder. Christ. He needed to pull himself together. “Nothing at all. Well, apart from this room being icier than the North Sea.”
“I’ll get up and stoke the fire.”
“No,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”
It was freezing without the protection of the heavy quilt, and Arran gritted his teeth as he wrapped a spare woolen blanket around himself and marched to the fireplace. It took a lot of coaxing and more wood, but at last a hearty blaze sent welcome warmth into the room, and after re-lighting the tallow candles, he slipped behind the screen to make use of the chamber pot. Rachel had risen as well; her scampering footsteps and yelp of dismay as she tested the temperature of the remaining fresh water in the bucket almost made him smile.
Far too soon for his liking, they were both refreshed and nearly dressed. There were so many things he wanted to say as he assisted her with the laces of her stays and gown buttons, but what the hell could he say, really? You are special. We have intense chemistry, and I like you very much, but I cannot court you because my parents chose a bride for me and signed a bloody contract. It was their dying wish, and in my world only the lady can cry off…
“Last night was…” he began, wanting to curse when the right words wouldn’t form.
She turned her head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach those expressive hazel eyes. “I’ll remember it always. Now I know how it should be in the bedchamber, I shall expect nothing less.”
The thought of another man bedding Rachel, pleasuring her and hearing her orgasmic cries made his fists clench, so Arran swiftly moved away to fetch his discarded cravat and retie it around his neck. “I hope you’ll join me for breakfast before you go. What time does the stagecoach depart?”
Rachel grimaced. “I’m not sure. I’ll need a new ticket. Goodness, I hope there is a seat available inside the coach. Otherwise I will perish as an iceberg.”
“Do not worry, I’ll ensure you have the best seat possible. Whatever it costs.”
A half hour later they descended in silence to the dining room. It was already half-full and abuzz with chatter and people wishing each other a Merry Christmas as they breakfasted on toasted bread with butter and preserves, and hot tea. A few hardy souls even had tankards of ale. And yet the merriment around him, the sight of so many real married couples and families laughing, drinking their tea, sharing stories and adoring looks, cheering the antics of an elderly man who had swept his wife under a mistletoe wreath for a kiss, only irritated him.
The Marquess of Kyle might have staggering wealth and vast lands, but all the men in this room had something h
e didn’t. A wife they’d chosen themselves, a woman they admired and lusted after. Perhaps even loved. After last night, he bloody well envied them.
“My goodness, Mr. Elliott. You’ll curdle the butter with that scowl.”
Arran glanced down at Rachel, who smiled too brightly. “Saucy-tongued minx. Go and find us some seats, and I’ll order us breakfast. Tea? Or ale?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Tea, definitely.”
As reluctant as he’d ever been, Arran found Mrs. Vine. For an extra coin, the inn offered coddled eggs and thinly sliced ham as well as the toasted bread and butter, and he discreetly slipped her a shilling for a heartier breakfast. At least here Rachel could eat well; stagecoach inns could vary greatly in quality. Perhaps he could arrange for a parcel of fruit cake, bread or pasties to take with her. Damnation, he didn’t want her to be hungry. And her shawl was far too thin for the weather. What she really needed was a proper cloak, lined with satin…
“Morning, sir!”
He winced at the familiar voice that indicated a thumping return to reality. “Merry Christmas, Simms. You are revoltingly chirpy.”
His coachman grinned so widely it nearly split his grizzled face in two. “I actually slept. Merry Christmas to you. And your lady friend.”
Arran glared in irritation at the older man. “I take it the carriage is ready to depart?”
“Ah…unfortunately not. The smithy did not have the correct sized bolt we need to repair the axle. He said he can fetch one from one of the neighboring villages, but it will take a few days...”
“Fine.” The word leaped from his lips before he even had time to think.
“Somehow I knew you wouldn’t mind,” said Simms with a wink.
On another occasion, he might have heaved his coachman into the prickliest shrubbery he could find. But the thought of a few more stolen moments with Rachel almost had him dancing a jig. And he did not bloody dance.
“I will pay you to get out of my sight. Here,” Arran growled, handing him several coins. “You and the footmen. Eat, drink, and be merry. No arguments or fisticuffs with the locals, no matter what they say.”
“Aye, sir. Much obliged. Never too early for a brandy at Christmas, if they have plum pudding as well, I’ll be happy as a pig in mud.”
Arran rolled his eyes as Simms ambled away, but his heart had begun to pound. In truth, he felt like a condemned man given a respite. If Rachel agreed to continue their married couple charade, they could have a few more days together to make memories to warm his cold future. A few more nights.
Strolling over to the small wooden table on the east wall that she’d chosen, he slid into the chair opposite her. “I have a question. Are you at all open to bribery and corruption?”
Rachel’s eyes widened. Then she leaned forward, her face aglow with curiosity. “That depends. Is it you wishing to bribe and corrupt me, sir?”
“Yes. In a manner of speaking,” he replied, suppressing the lust that always surged through him whenever she called him that. “More like throw myself at your mercy.”
“Oh?”
Arran took a deep breath. “My carriage needs a new bolt for the axle. But it will take a few days—”
“You want me to stay with you?”
Something twisted in the region of his heart at her hopeful smile, and he almost regretted asking. If one night with Rachel Lindsay had him feeling like this, how would he ever let her go after three? And if she felt the same…
Yet his hand—apparently of its own bloody free will, because public displays of affection were not something he indulged in—had already reached out to take hers. “If you would. You may name your price, of course.”
Rachel’s smile dimmed a little. “Payment is unnecessary. But if the offer is just you…I accept.”
* * *
It was freezing outside, so cold it almost hurt to breathe. And yet Rachel wouldn’t have traded this stroll for the world.
Yes, she was a fool to have agreed to extend the bargain. She had been miserable enough this morning, knowing she would have to say goodbye to Arran. But no matter what her head chided and warned, her body remained greedy for more touching, more tender care, more indescribable pleasure in bed. So she had agreed to his request.
This inn was a different and magical world. Here, she wasn’t Rachel Lindsay, poverty-stricken maid of dubious birth and no prospects. A young woman who couldn’t seem to do anything right, who sometimes ached with loneliness and a sensation of being adrift, of not really knowing who she was or her place in the world. No, here as Mrs. Elliott, Arran’s companion and mistress, it all felt very clear. Because he made it clear. And others took his lead and treated her with friendly courtesy; men smiling and wishing her good day, women inviting her to join card games, sing carols, and admire rosy-cheeked babies. Rather than being the one with raw hands from scrubbing floors or mending, she was the lady at the table with a crisp napkin in her lap and a stomach full of tasty food.
And now, on Arran’s arm, with nothing but the scent of chimney smoke, impending storm, and tilled earth in the air, it was dangerously easy to imagine this game would never end. That she wouldn’t have to leave and enter servitude again, but stay with him always.
“You’re cold.”
Rachel glanced up at him and smiled reassuringly. “I’m fine. The fresh air is quite welcome after London. Sometimes the Thames has a stench that is truly awful.”
“I’d like to purchase you a cloak before we attend the church service,” he said abruptly. “Mrs. Vine said the village dressmaker lives above the shop with the bright blue door, and always has a few ready-made garments available. I understand the shop is open until noon.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, stunned at the offer.
Arran’s determined gaze bored into her. “I don’t want you to be cold. That shawl is entirely inadequate for the weather.”
“But—”
“Please, Rachel,” he said, although the word still sounded like a command. “No strings attached. Not a payment. Just a Christmas gift, and a practical one at that.”
“Oh, very well,” she grumbled, as though her eyes weren’t burning at the thought of a garment that wasn’t old and patched or been worn by other people. A token to remind her of the happiest time of her life.
The shop was indeed open, and a Scottish couple she recognized from the inn dining room were perusing a colorful display of ribbons. Across another wall sat a long trestle table covered in a range of ready-made clothing, everything from stockings and gloves to flannel nightgowns and striped cambric gowns, even a few pretty lace-edged chemises. Obviously, the dressmaker had some sort of special arrangement with the Vines, for these items looked more like something a well-heeled traveler might buy rather than the local women. If she had a reticule heavy with shillings, she might lose her wits completely in a place like this.
“Something you like?”
Rachel forced herself to shake her head at Arran’s query. “Did you see any cloaks?”
“Just over there. Mostly black and brown, although one in bright yellow if you are feeling adventurous.”
She laughed. “A good choice if lost on a mountain, perhaps, but I think I shall choose a more muted shade.”
“Go and try on a few. There is a curtain pinned up for privacy in the corner.”
Well. This might be why ladies of quality enjoyed shopping. While some might deem it a frivolous activity, there was something empowering about choosing your own cut and color and fabric, even for a cloak. The curtained-off area had a half-sized looking glass propped up against the wall, so Rachel was able to take a good hard look at herself. Ugh. The charity-box gown really was too small, as were her stays. Her chemise and stockings had long seen better days, but at least they were mostly hidden. Yet when she tried on a heavy woolen cloak almost the same shade of brown as her hair…good grief. It felt like an embrace. A heavenly, satin-lined, warm embrace.
She almost looked like a lady.
Allowing herself one moment of foolishness, she twirled and daydreamed about stepping down from a fancy carriage into a stately home, a footman trailing in her wake laden with boxes and parcels. Arran met her in the entrance hall, his kiss to her cheek a promise that later he would kiss her everywhere, and their children came running to demand hugs, show her drawings, and rummage through her reticule for the promised treat of candied fruit.
Rachel sighed and poked her tongue out at her reflection. Mistresses didn’t become wives, that was plain fact. Then she removed the cloak, and draping it over her arm, left the curtained-off area to find Arran sitting on a chair, arms folded.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said quickly.
He sent her a surprised look as he got to his feet. “You were fast. I was resigned to sitting here for an hour at least.”
“An hour?”
“A lady’s shopping always takes longer than anyone expects. Or so I hear.”
“It would be a very easy way to spend time,” she replied. “With the funds, of course. Shall we go?”
“You like that cloak?”
“I love it,” Rachel began, then bit her lip. “It is awfully expensive though. Twelve shillings!”
“A pittance.”
She stifled a gasp at his casual dismissal of the cost, the way only someone with a great deal of money, someone who had never been hungry or cold or winced at a bill, would do. “I never asked what it is you do for a living. Are you in trade perhaps? A lawyer? A banker?”
For the second time since she’d met him, Arran looked uncomfortable. Oddly, it seemed his occupation ranked alongside his family as something he didn’t wish to discuss.