Mistletoe Mistress

by Nicola Davidson

  Arran straightened his shoulders and patted her hand. “I’m not sure, my dear,” he said, before turning to the innkeeper’s wife. “Have we secured a room, Mrs. Vine?”

  The older woman blinked. “Forgive me, sir. I did not see your wife before.”

  “I was warming my hands by your wonderful fire,” his new companion said quickly, “while, ah…”

  “While I stopped at the stables arranging repair to a broken carriage axle,” added Arran. “It has been a very trying day.”

  “Very trying.”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Vine. “Dear me. Oh, you poor poppets. The room is yours, I shall have one of my maids prepare it now. Would you care for hot tea and fruit cake in the dining room while you wait? You won’t taste better, I assure you, Mr...?”

  “Elliott,” he replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Elliott. And yes, refreshments sound superb. Don’t you think, my dear?”

  His wife of less than a minute beamed up at him, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Superb indeed. My…our grateful thanks.”

  Arran nodded, and they followed Mrs. Vine through a set of double doors into an enormous dining room, three-quarters full and loud with chatter.

  This Christmas Eve was proving to be eventful, indeed.

  She had warmth. Would soon have food and lodging for the night. All because the well-dressed and sinfully handsome gentleman sitting on the other side of the small wooden table had chosen to be kind.

  A sinfully handsome gentleman now masquerading as her husband.

  Rachel shivered. A part of her wanted to shriek at the enormity of what she’d done, an action so rash she could scarcely believe herself capable of it. Attaching herself to a complete stranger! But desperate times called for desperate measures, and propriety became an easy sacrifice when a woman needed food and shelter in winter.

  Well, that and the fact that she also needed him.

  From the moment he’d marched through the inn doors and halted mere feet away at the fireplace, Mr. Elliott had awakened a scorching hot desire in her. Her first thought had been to marvel at his height, surely six feet at least, and the way his tailored greatcoat lovingly clung to broad shoulders and a powerful chest. Older than her, perhaps a decade or so more than her twenty years, with faintly tanned skin as though he enjoyed being outdoors. But his face…pure fallen angel, with silver-gray eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and a jaw hewn from stone. Jet-black hair, military-short, only added to his air of command.

  She’d simply had to say something. Anything. All her foolish tongue managed was an inane comment about the fire, but the way he’d looked at her…good heavens. Seared to her very soul by a raw hunger, like he wanted to bed her at once. And when she’d later overheard the innkeeper’s wife about to refuse him a room for being a bachelor, her feet had moved faster than she thought possible, her hand curling about his solidly muscled arm before she could inwardly debate the rightness of it.

  Now here they were. False husband and wife being served hot tea, and thick slices of fruit cake by a deferential Mrs. Vine.

  “Do you need anything else, sir?” said the older woman, as she deftly poured tea. “Your room is being readied, and your satchels have been taken upstairs. Here is your key, the room is on the second floor, end of the hallway, last door on the left. Will you take supper down here, or do you wish a tray? Tonight is beef and vegetable stew served with fresh bread.”

  “A tray,” blurted Rachel. Two strangers could only feign wedlock in public for so long.

  Her gentleman nodded. “A tray would be much appreciated. Thank you,” he said, slipping Mrs. Vine some coins.

  “Very good, sir,” the innkeeper’s wife replied, nodding in approval before bustling away to assist another guest.

  To give herself a moment for composure, Rachel took a few sips of tea. It was hot and sweet, and she sighed at the soothing, warming magic. Then she set down her cup and leaned forward. “Thank you.”

  He lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug, his gaze unreadable. “No, thank you. Our esteemed hostess was about to turn me back out into the icy mud for the shocking sin of being unmarried.”

  “Is Elliott really your surname?”

  Now he smiled just a little, revealing a hint of a dimple. Truly devastatingly handsome. “It is. Might I know your name? I feel like I should know, being wed and all.”

  She blushed. “It’s Rachel. Rachel Lindsay. I’m from London. You’d think that might make me a little wiser in the ways of the world. But I was left behind by the stagecoach going north because I foolishly believed an aristocratic cad when he told me the luncheon stop was a full hour. I…I don’t think he wished to sit beside me for the remainder of the journey. Not that I wished to sit beside him, for he talked about horses and saddles without taking a breath. But he was preferable to the spinsters with their scripture. And the mother with an irritable toddler. And the retired sailor who passed wind in his sleep…oh, good heavens. I’m babbling. I’m sorry. It’s just such a relief to not be on that coach or outside in the freezing cold.”

  Mr. Elliott nodded as he finished a bite of cake. “I understand. I’m rather relieved myself. My carriage axle needs a new bolt, so I’m at the mercy of the local smithy, but I’ve come down from Lincolnshire and the thought of spending one more hour let alone many on those damned…er, I do beg your pardon, those roads did not appeal.”

  A giggle escaped at the notion he thought her a lady with airs, graces and an abhorrence for cursing, and Rachel impulsively took his hand. “No need to apologize, or mind your words, sir. As I’m sure you can see, I am no delicate miss.”

  “Quite,” he said softly, his silver-gray gaze burning in a most appreciative way.

  Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed hard. Not to be outdone, her nipples hardened and pressed painfully against her too-small bodice. The charity box for the school rarely catered to a woman of her generous proportions, but right now her unflattering clothing didn’t seem to matter at all, not when Mr. Elliott looked at her like this. “I…uh...”

  Oh God. Had she really just whimpered while sitting in an inn dining room? Although that was entirely her false husband’s fault. The pad of his thumb had brushed the inside of her wrist, jolting her to the tips of her toes and making her ache between her thighs. Much like after her last wooden spoon punishment, she wanted to slide a hand down and touch herself.

  Abruptly, Mr. Elliott sat back in his chair. “Drink your tea, Rachel.”

  Almost whimpering again at his deliciously stern tone and the sensual way her name sounded from his lips, she obediently topped up both their cups and helped herself to a slice of cake. Then another, because it really was tasty. His gaze remained on her the whole time, not disapproving in any way, more brooding. But still, that banked heat, as though he wanted to say naughty things—do naughty things—but was holding back.

  Which of course prodded the imp of mischief inside her to life, as a scandalous idea lodged itself in her mind and refused to budge. Here they were, two unwed strangers, feigning marriage, trapped together for the night in an inn. What if they behaved like a married couple in every way? If she asked him to, would he take her upstairs to their room and undress her, kiss and caress her, show her the kind of pleasure she’d never experienced but suspected he knew exactly how to provide a woman?

  Already, Mr. Elliott had demonstrated kindness and generosity, and he clearly didn’t mind her plumpness. He wasn’t a devil lord like the man who had left her mother to die and abandoned his own daughter to a foundling hospital. Nor was he a slimy son of a peer who lied about stagecoach stops. Besides, it wasn’t like he would ruin an innocent. She’d lost her virginity a year ago in a brief and most unsatisfactory affair with a clerk who eventually confessed that while he liked her a great deal, he actually preferred the intimate company of men.

  If she asked to be bedded, for the first time in her life something would be entirely her decision. And she would have a wickedly wonderful memory to take with her
when they bade each other farewell in the morning and she continued north to take up the maid’s position. No one need ever know…

  Taking a deep breath, Rachel squared her shoulders. “Mr. Elliott—”

  “Arran,” he said gruffly. “My given name is Arran. You may call me that if you wish.”

  She nodded, her spirits soaring further and strengthening her resolve. Thankfully the dining room was so loud and busy that no one could overhear this particular conversation. “Arran. I wondered, um…if you might consider…”

  “Yes?” he replied, one eyebrow raised.

  “If you might consider bedding me.”

  Chapter 2

  “I wondered if you might consider bedding me.”

  Arran nearly choked on his tea. Consider? As though he hadn’t thought about Rachel Lindsay naked and under him, of worshiping her lush curves until she begged him to fuck her hard and deep, from approximately the first moment he’d seen her? The way she’d whimpered when his thumb accidentally brushed her wrist…hell. Knowing she responded to his touch, and could well be a most eager and passionate lover, his cock had strained so hard against his trousers it was a wonder the buttons had held.

  They had a chance to make the evening ahead memorable indeed, and this would be his last opportunity to bed a woman he both instinctively liked and lusted for. Once his betrothal was official, he wouldn’t embarrass Lady Sarah by taking lovers. Nor did he really want to once they were married. He’d always been irritated by the ton’s constant dance from bedchamber to bedchamber, it was something his brother had often teased him about. Well, that and his preference to stay in the country and learn about crops and soils rather than joining the London season.

  But he didn’t want to think about London or another woman now. Not when Rachel waited for his reply, those pretty hazel eyes wide and earnest, that rounded backside squirming in her chair. Wicked little minx. So brazen and bold, and yet somehow innocent at the same time. Did she know how erotic the combination was? Perhaps not, for there hadn’t been even a hint of calculation in her gaze. But this beauty intrigued him beyond all. He needed to discover her secrets, something that definitely couldn’t be done in a dining room.

  Arran got to his feet and held out his arm. “Let us continue this most interesting discussion in a more private setting, madam.”

  Rachel inhaled a shaky breath, her cheeks pink, and again he thanked providence for the protection of his greatcoat now folded over his other arm. He ached to be inside her, to feel her nails on his back, to hear her wild cries of pleasure in his ear.

  “Of course,” she whispered.

  The inside of the inn was typical for most Tudor buildings, narrow staircases, low doorways, elaborate carving, and many darkened alcoves. But he could appreciate the history and workmanship another day when his mind wasn’t addled by lust. They walked in silence upstairs to the second floor, and then along the hallway to the room Mrs. Vine had allocated, last on the left. Blessedly, furthest away from the constant sound of clomping feet on the wooden staircase and people gossiping and laughing as they drank their ale and lemonade and ate in the dining room.

  Arran unlocked the door. “After you.”

  She walked to the center of the surprisingly well-furnished and spacious room and clasped her hands together. “Oh! It’s lovely. A nice fire burning, bathing screen…there are our satchels, as promised, look there’s even a hand-stitched quilt on the bed.”

  After latching the door behind him, he strode over to a small table underneath a window overlooking the courtyard below. Then he sat down in one of the high-backed wooden chairs, so his height didn’t intimidate her. “Let us speak plainly then, Rachel.”

  Trembling a little, she ambled toward him, her hands still clasped in front of her and perfectly framing her breasts. But there wasn’t a trace of fear on her expressive face, only intense arousal, ready and waiting to be mastered into ecstasy. “I know…” she began hoarsely. “I know my request must seem like an odd one. Very scandalous. And I’ve already behaved scandalously by saying I am your wife. But…”

  “But?” he said, soft and encouraging as he could, considering he wanted her more with each passing minute.

  “You are a very attractive man. I am drawn to you in a way that I’m not even sure I can explain in my own mind, let alone out loud. But I very much want to be bedded by you. And…and I think perhaps you might want to bed me too.”

  Arran nodded brusquely. “Yes.”

  She brightened. “Then you will? Oh, I must reassure you also, I am not a virgin. So you do not have to worry about that, although my experience is rather limited. And, er…do you have a sponge, perhaps? Although it might be easier just to spill on my belly at the end.”

  Such refreshing frankness delighted him, yet it only increased his curiosity about her. Unmarried but not a virgin. The knowledge of a courtesan but the speech, manners, and dress of a governess. A certain shyness, but a bold streak that spoke directly to that darker part of himself, the part that yearned to dominate and discipline and spank her backside cherry-red for daring to offer instruction. “A long way to go before then.”

  “Really?” she replied, her gaze darting down to where his cock bulged embarrassingly prominently. “I think you might need your mistletoe mistress sooner rather than later.”

  “My what?”

  Rachel’s lips twitched. “Well, it is nearly Christmas.”

  “Are you teasing me, madam?” Arran said, tilting his head. “How wicked.”

  A shiver passed through Rachel, dislodging her shawl and revealing the outline of hard nipples pressing against the bodice of her gown. “I fear you are right. Such wayward behavior should probably be corrected.”

  Arran stilled, temporarily speechless. Surely he couldn’t be so fortunate. This amusing, forthright, beautiful woman with the kind of heavenly lush curves tailor-made for a large man like himself, not only knew about the pleasure in discipline but wanted it? “Er…”

  Her shoulders drooped. “I mean, ah…”

  Leaping to his feet, he halted mere inches in front of Rachel, and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, his thumbs brushing the fabric covering the tops of her breasts. “I know what you mean. And yes, I will give you everything you need.”

  Rachel moaned, her back arching in a deliberate attempt to get him to stroke her distended nipples. But he was having none of that. Only when his mistletoe mistress submitted to him fully and properly obeyed his commands, would she receive rewards.

  Slowly, so slowly, he slid his left hand down the length of her arm before moving it to rest at the small of her back. Then he glided his right hand along her shoulder, up the side of her neck and around so his fingertips could trace little circles at the base of her skull. Rachel’s hands lifted to grip his jacket lapels, and she tilted her head back into his touch, her eyes heavy-lidded and her breasts bobbing as she took quick, panting breaths.

  “Pl-please, Arran,” she whispered. “Kiss me. Please.”

  Yes. That was what he wanted to hear from her. Raw need that only he could assuage. Benevolent now she had surrendered, Arran swooped down and captured her lips with his. Christ, they were soft. Soft and warm and ripe to be plundered. As he deepened the kiss, his tongue flicked at her lips for entry, and she opened her mouth immediately, a sensual little sigh escaping. Soon her tongue tentatively touched his, and he barely suppressed a groan as they tangled together and sent the kiss from hot to scorching. But then she attempted to move even closer and rub her taut nipples against his chest.

  Naughty.

  Arran chuckled, promptly abandoning her lips and turning her around, so her back rested against his chest, held firmly against him by his arm under her breasts. Rachel mewled in dismay, and further amused at the charming kitten-like sound, he bent his head to trail his mouth along the side of her neck, taking tiny nipping bites before soothing with a lap of his tongue. “Like a little kitten, you are delightfully playful and bold. But entirely too impa
tient. Try and take charge again, and I’ll be forced to discipline you. I decide when my mistress is allowed to come, and that time is not now. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, Arran.”

  “I think not,” he replied in a hard, uncompromising tone. “When being corrected, you will call me sir.”

  Rachel quivered, a carnal little whimper echoing in the room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arran knew.

  Somehow he knew that for the longest time she had yearned for a man to take complete control of her pleasure. To command her body in the bedchamber, discipline her when she was wicked, make her surrender in such a way that all she had to do was feel. And not only did Arran understand this unusual need in her, he also seemed to approve wholeheartedly. For a moment there when he’d stared at her, she’d thought she’d made a terrible mistake in starkly stating her desire for sexual correction. But oh, the way his gaze had then heated, his voice hard, his touch a perfect torment. And he called her a kitten, a rather apt choice for a woman known to be both wayward and occasionally fierce.

  Rachel quivered again, her body screaming for more of the kisses that had near set her mouth and neck ablaze. If Arran attended to her nipples, currently scraping uncomfortably against a too-small bodice, in such a manner, she might well climax from that alone. If he caressed her between her legs where she was hot and damp and throbbing, her cries of pleasure would probably heard in every room this inn had. Yet there was something altogether wonderful in just being held, too.

  Standing in this lovely, warm room, with his huge chest at her back, and his muscled arm clamping her to him, she felt secure in a way she never had at the school. That might have been her sanctuary, but bricks and mortar didn’t wipe away silent tears in the night. Maids she had befriended found new positions, others looked down on her because of her illegitimacy. Lady Farringdon’s charity had always come with numerous strings attached. Sometimes it had been difficult to remain cheerful, yet if she’d succumbed to her fears and doubts and sadness, it might well have been impossible to climb back out of that particular abyss.