by Anne Gracie
Bertie Baxter shook his head. “Ladies tend to be foolishly romantic about stallions. I shall leave it to Rafe to convince you of the virtues of a nice gelding.”
Ayisha smiled. “Yes, do, Rafe, convince me.”
They bid farewell to Bertie Baxter and as the door closed behind them, Rafe said smoothly, “So I’m a stallion, eh?” His eyes gleamed at the thought.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “What makes you think I was talking about you?”
“Baggage,” he said and tossed her over his shoulder. Ignoring her struggles, he took the stairs two at a time, heading for their bedroom.
“But I want to read my letters,” she said between giggles.
“Yes, but we stallions are nasty, unpredictable brutes, and need to be mounted. Now.”
She laughed. “Perhaps gelding might improve your temperament.”
He didn’t bother to answer. In minutes he had her flat on the bed, her skirts around her waist, and himself poised to enter her. “Still want to have me gelded?” he growled softly, his hands doing things to her that melted her insides.
“Mmm, no,” she murmured happily as he slowly entered her. “I love you . . . just . . . the way . . . you are.”
Later they lay exhausted, entwined and blissful.
“Thank you for bringing me out of Egypt,” Ayisha murmured after a while. “Laila once told me I was living a half life there, and I didn’t believe her. But now I know . . . You’ve given me so much—love, a home, and a family—more than I ever thought possible.”
“And you, my love, have brought me home after years of being outside, and that I thought was impossible.”
He stroked the silken skin of her stomach. “Little did I think, that night in your father’s house, having set a trap for you with Ali and that picture, waiting to catch a thief, that I would catch instead—”
“A bride?”
He turned his head and gazed into her lovely eyes. “More than a bride. I caught the love of my life.”
