A Dom for Christmas

by Raven McAllan

  “Why am I in a soap? And who are you?” She sat up and winced as the jackhammers began pounding inside her skull again. “Why do you remind me of someone? And what the fuck has happened?”

  He pushed her back onto the bed. She folded like a limp noodle, and to her disgust, harrumphed like a mumpy teenager as he stroked her cheek. The contact seared her skin, and she’d not have been surprised to see a red mark where his finger had been.

  “You’re confused. You don’t go in a soap, you apply it. You particularly like Mr. Pears soap.”

  That rang a bell. She got a fleeting impression of an oval, brown bar.

  “I’m your husband,” he continued, and put his hand to her forehead and frowned. “Hmm, a trifle warm. Perhaps I’d better let you rest.”

  If she was, it was all down to the heat his touch sent rushing through her. An uncomfortable, make you squirm and clench your thighs together to hold in your juices, heat. Angie grabbed his hand and pulled it away from her skin. “If you leave this room without telling me what’s going on and why you’re all dressed up like, oh I don’t know, rejects from a fancy dress party, well you might leave, but your balls as sure won’t.” Her voice ended on a screech that set the hairs on her arms on end. Shit, my language would put even a navvy to shame; it’s no wonder he’s got a face like thunder. Why did it make her want to kneel at his feet and beg forgiveness?

  “Please.” Angie hated the whiny, pleading note that she could discern in her voice. “In words of one syllable. What’s going on? Why the big ‘let’s confuse Angie’ session? Just tell me already and let me die in peace.”

  He blanched, the color leeching out of him to leave him the same pale hue as the silken sheet that covered her. “You are not going to die. Let me send someone to call the doctor back.” He walked toward a long rope she hadn’t noticed, that hung down from the ceiling to one side of the fireplace. The blazing logs in the grate registered for the first time as well.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake it’s an expression, that’s all.” She might not know who he was or where she was, but she did know that. Like remembering her mum, it was funny what thoughts and ideas she was sure were true. “Humor me. Please. Give me your name, tell me where I am, and what’s happened. What’s the date? Have I missed Christmas?” Something dug into her side, and she groped for and found a small wooden ornament. Her fingers tightened on it as she lifted it from under the covers. An angel with net skirts and a paper wand.

  “You wouldn’t let go of it. I had thought it locked away safely. You were holding it when we found you.”

  Locked away? She lived in the decoration box, and that was kept in the hall cupboard.

  “Angel Dora,” Angie said. “I need to put it on the tree.”

  “Tree?”

  “The Christmas tree. It goes on every…why are you staring at me like that?”

  He walked back to her side and perched on the bed before he ran his fingers through his hair, spoiling what Angie decided had been a neat and tidy cut. Then she really noticed his clothes. He had to be going to a fancy dress ball, surely? She looked down at the heavy cotton garment she was wearing. Well, unless she was going as a ghost or a fairy, she was in some type of nightwear. It was so voluminous and heavy, you’d not need blankets on top of it to keep warm.

  “My dear, I fear you are delirious.” He spoke in the same tone you’d use to soothe a fractious child. Angie wanted to kick him.

  “I have no idea what a Christmas tree is,” he continued. “Christmas is good food, a touch of greenery, church, and of course family. The angel was a betrothal present to you, and as such was kept safe. As for the rest? You were found unconscious on the doorstep, clutching the angel. It’s December 1818. We’re in London, though we should be at Camberley Court now. We had to put off our departure. I’m Camberley. Arthur, William Epscott, the Earl of Camberley. Cam to my friends. You are Angelina, my wife.”

  That was it. She sank back onto the pillows and closed her eyes. She had hit her head, and she was hallucinating. 1818 indeed. She let the blackness gather her into its welcoming numbness once more.

  Chapter Two

  Cam looked down at the unconscious woman in front of him and swore under his breath. Just not what the doctor ordered. “Keep her calm, don’t let her get upset, and try to answer her questions in a gentle and non-threatening manner.” Well, he’d failed miserably in every one of those edicts and he was disgusted with himself. He knew better, but seeing her lying so helpless brought out the aggression, and the feeling of failure. Failure to keep his Lady safe.

  Now what? Cam spied a small vial on the chest next to the bed, and heaved a gusty sigh of relief. He picked it up, opened it, and wafted the smelling salts under her nose.

  “Angelina.” He spoke in a deliberately harsh and dictatorial manner and not at all the tone he would normally use, either as her Master, or in any social situation. Nevertheless, drastic measures were needed. “Wake up now. Do you want me to pour brandy down your throat?”

  She spluttered and waved the bottle away as she coughed, fluttered her eyelids, and opened her eyes. To his relief the irises were a clear grey, and didn’t seem clouded with pain. “I’d rather brandy, than that rancid cat’s pee you’re shoving up my nose.”

  In spite of his worry, Cam laughed. “Rancid cat’s pee? Where do you learn such expressions? I’ll have you know that’s the best quality smelling salts available. Come now, my dear, no more vapors. I need to know you’re on the mend. Otherwise Dr. Taylor will, in his words, have my hide for a sporran.” He rolled his eyes and set the smelling salts down on the table. His heartbeat quickened as she grinned.

  “Ha, and that’s likely—not.”

  Why is she talking in riddles?

  “Do you feel well enough to sit up a little and talk?” Cam asked her. “If I aid you.”

  “Duh. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Angelina wedged her elbows into the mattress and started to heave herself upward.

  He frowned as he helped her to sit up, propped on the pillows. “What sort of word is ‘duh’?”

  “Duh? It’s, well, duh. An of course, don’t be daft, well…duh.” She shrugged. “It’s duh.”

  Cam smoothed the covers over her, picked up a flagon of watered wine—he’d foreseen that diktat—and poured some into a goblet. He poured a tankard of ale for himself, handed her the goblet, and perched on the bed again. It was not the clearest of answers.

  “Tell me what you remember. Why you insist you don’t know me, and why you think someone would attack you on our doorstep.”

  His wife took a sip of wine and wrinkled her nose. “Urgh, I think water is better than this.” She handed Cam her glass, and without thinking why, he took it. Then she lifted his tankard and took a long swallow before he realized what she was doing. He snatched it back from her and she grinned as she wiped the froth from her lips.

  Damned if I don’t think it should be me doing that. With my tongue. Before I give her a punishment for scaring me. The thoughts of what he wanted to do to her shocked him, and made him all too aware of how hard his cock was. He turned slightly to rearrange it under his pantaloons. Thank goodness for knitted garments and the stretch in them. Behave, she’s ill for heaven’s sake. Spanking or otherwise will have to wait. He took a long swallow of ale himself, amused at the way he placed his lips where hers had been. “You were saying?”

  “That stuff, whatever it is. It just tastes off.” She licked her lips.

  As her pink tongue circled her mouth, Cam’s own mouth went dry. It was oh so erotic, and an unconscious invitation.

  “Okay,” Angelina said in a husky voice. She cleared her throat. “Cards on the table time. Please tell me in words of one syllable who I am, where I am, what happened, and who you are. Don’t blow me off, just hit me with it.” She thumped the bedcovers for emphasis and winced. “That’s stupid. Me thumping, I mean. It just makes my head sore. I mean argh, well hit me with the truth. I can take it.”

  Oh how tr
ue that statement was. Angelina was the perfect sub. For him and only him. And Cam didn’t ever hit. He preferred knife play, wax, or his own homemade flogger. And oh how she could take them. However, he was worried about her muddled thought process.

  “I’ve already told you. You are my wife, and that, my dear, until you are better, is all I intend to tell you again. You can remember the rest at will.” Her eyes narrowed, but to his amazement she didn’t demand he continue with his facts about them. Instead she gave a brief nod, as if to reassure herself about something or other.

  “Hey.” Her fingers stroked the coverlet.

  The sensual strokes sent his senses on high alert.

  “Is this honest to goodness silk?”

  Cam honed in on her last question. It was by far and away the least complicated one of all she had asked for him to answer. “Of course, what else.”

  “What else indeed.”

  Why was her tone so sarcastic? Indeed what else would it be?

  “Right, and the rest, mate.”

  It seemed his relief was short lived. He should have known better than to think she would give in so easily. Really he was looking forward to when she was well enough to be punished. Cam wasn’t a cruel man, and all they did was by mutual agreement, but sometimes her brattiness went beyond all boundaries of acceptable behavior.

  “My name, which I gave you leave to use, is Camberley. Arthur, William, Epscott, Earl of Camberley. Those who are in my circle of friends call me Cam. You, as my wife, do so. Angelina, please, what is all this?”

  She shook her head until the short curls danced around her face. “All this is crap. My name is Angie McAllister, not Angelina, Ang…okay, it’s Angel. No ‘a’ or even ‘elina’ at the end. But you call me that over my dead body. Angel, I mean. Who on earth wants to be called Angel? Do you know the teasing I got over that at school? So start talking, buster, er Cam. And what’s with the ‘Earl’ stuff? I’m not married to an Earl. I’d remember that, surely?”

  “You are married to an Earl. You’re my Countess. Lady Angelina Epscott. We were married in April at the chapel at Camberley Hall. Three weeks ago, on the first of the month, you, accompanied by Esther, your maid, were about to go to Hatchards Lending Library, and thence to your dressmakers. You said because it was a mild day, you’d walk there and had arranged a time for your carriage to pick you up. We were due to return to the country the following day, to host our mid-winter house party, and you decided to take some reading matter with you. I teased you that I could entertain you much better than a novel, and you reiterated it wasn’t possible when we had guests. I assured you it was. As you reached the bottom of the steps you realized you’d forgotten the book you wished to exchange, and Esther returned inside to collect it.”

  “Okay, I’ve no idea who Esther is, but a library book is familiar.” Angie pleated the silk under her hands and then smoothed it out with her fingers. “Carry on.”

  Cam narrowed his eyes. He gave the orders, not her. However, in the circumstances, he’d let the infraction go for now. “Before she rejoined you, Perry, our major domo, saw a ruffian approach you and knock you to the ground. He was trying to prise something from your hands. Perry, as the good major domo and ex-pugilist he is, set to and foiled him. However, once Perry saw you were injured, you became his prime concern and the villain got away. Nevertheless, Perry is certain he recognized him, although at present he can’t put a name to the face. If he sees him again he no doubt will, and will find out what’s going on.”

  “Okay. That doesn’t account for the fact you say it’s 1818 and I’m married to an Earl. Where’s my ring?” She waved her left hand in the air.

  Cam fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a plain gold band. “Here.” He lifted her hand and began to put it on her finger. To his dismay, his wife pulled back as if she’d been bitten by one of the monkeys in the Royal Exchange.

  “That’s not mine. My wedding ring is white gold with tiny hearts engraved in it. Cam had… Oh fuck. Cam.” Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. “Oh my God. Cam.”

  Now he was worried. Why did she say his name in such an agonized way? “Angelina, this is your ring.” He held it to her finger. She crooked it so he couldn’t get the ring on further.

  “Then where’s yours?”

  “My dear, men don’t wear a wedding ring. We wear our signet here.” He showed her his little finger. “With the seal of our house engraved in it.”

  “No. But… Ah…” She seemed incapable of finishing a word off. He waited until she heaved a great sigh.

  “Angelina, believe me, we were married in church, before the Bishop, in the sight of God. We have consummated our marriage. It is all above board. Why even now you might, if the good Lord is willing, be carrying my heir. We spent a very,” he couldn’t stop the grin appearing, “shall we say invigorating sennight at the Hall before we returned here. We—I—have certain proclivities I like to engage in and, praise be, so do you. It was a joy and a delight to introduce you to more than we could indulge in before we were wed. Never could I have hoped for such a willing and able pupil. However, we had to return to the capital whilst I cleared up some business. As I mentioned, we were due to return to the Hall to host our seasonal festivities, but fate intervened.”

  “Fate as in my lack of knowing what the fuck is going on?”

  He inclined his head, even as he wondered where she’d learned to speak in such a way. She really needed to clean her mouth, for if she didn’t, he’d do it for her.

  ****

  Angie picked up the glass of watered down wine and thrust it at the man who sat beside her. “Oh never mind.” Her brain was so frazzled she reckoned even if he did explain things in words of one syllable, she’d have trouble following him. “I’ll figure it out—or not—at some point. Can I have a cup of tea, please?” She’d prefer wine, but somehow she was under no illusion about him. Even not knowing him, she knew enough to accept that if the doctor said watered wine, he wouldn’t give her anything stronger.

  “Tea?”

  “Yeah, tea.” She wished her head didn’t ache, so she could try and sort out whatever was going on. Strange though it seemed, was she really dreaming she was living in 1818? With a hot-as-hell hubby called Cam. Who stared at her as if she’d asked for the crown jewels. “Well, unless you have some brandy handy.” She mentally rolled her eyes at the rhyming words, but her brain wasn’t up to sorting any better phrasing out, not yet.

  “No.”

  Yeah, you obviously subscribe to the school of why use three words when one will work just as well. She’d thought as much. Angie gave in with good grace. It wasn’t worth fighting for something so insignificant—especially when she knew the outcome wouldn’t be in her favor. “Ah well. Tea, please. You know, those little black leaves you infuse in boiling water.” Her foggy brain cleared a little and she remembered a book she’d read the week—or no, maybe not the week—sometime before. When she wasn’t in her dream. “And, er, keep locked away because it’s so expensive.”

  He stood up and pulled the bell rope. “I know what tea is, and yes the tea chest is in your parlor. Mrs. Nicholls has a key, as do you.”

  Angie deciphered those words to mean she—they—had a housekeeper. Well, if they were aristocrats they would have, wouldn’t they? Damn it, I should have read more Regency romances lately. What’s the norm in 1818? If I’m going to have a dream, I want to dream it right. “Then I’d love a cuppa, please. Weak, black, no milk or sugar.”

  Cam nodded and when someone tapped at the door, went into the hall to speak to whoever was there. He came back in and shut the door behind him. Angie studied him closely. Under the fine linen shirt he wore, his muscles were firm and well-defined. Every movement he made was infused with authority and the knowledge that he was in charge. Angie shivered, and tingles of hot awareness coursed through her. Her pussy muscles clenched as her arousal increased.

  Hell on wheels, I can’t have a wet dream like this, can I? A wet dream in a drea
m is a bit over the top, surely? However, the tops of her thighs were coated with her essence. Angie put her hand under the covers to rub the sheet over them. Now not only were her pussy curls damp, but so were her legs and even worse, the sheet.

  “You look flushed. Can I do anything to help?”

  Did he wink? Bloody hell, does he know just what he’s saying? Or in his time was innuendo different?

  “We…” She chickened out. Dream or not, if she didn’t go to the loo before anything else, there would be a problem. Oh, lordy, there is a problem. Loos. Or the lack of. How on earth do I ask delicately for him to shove off so I can hunt for the gazunder? She was reasonably sure that was what her gran had said her gran called a chamber pot.

  “Tell me, my dear. My job is to serve you.” The look in his eyes belied that. If she believed him she was in a coma, not a dream. He had “I’m in charge” written all over him.

  “I need a few moments to myself.”

  He frowned. “Doctor Taylor said you shouldn’t be left by yourself. You were unconscious for several weeks.”

  Then who helped me to the loo? And what about…shit, my pills. Okay, be brave.

  “I think perhaps I need my maid here.”

  “I can act as your maid.”

  In your dreams, mate. Oh fuck, no, I’m in my dream. Now I’d best be polite. “I think,” Angie said as politely as she could when she was clenching every muscle in her body, and not from pleasure, “that in this case, my maid might be better.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “You have your curses? ’Tis a pity. I’d hoped we’d created our first child on our wedding night. One moment, I’ll send for her.”

  Angie was sure her face was flame red. “Um, no.”

  “No? Then surely I can help. Both in making sure your curses do not come, and in aiding you at this moment.”

  He sounded as if he had the stick her angel ornament was on stuck up his ass. Oh so prim and proper. And who would talk about making love so prosaically?