Mistletoe Mistress

by Nicola Davidson

  “I do hold some trade interests,” he said eventually. “But mainly I’m a landowner.”

  “Oh!” she said with a laugh. “Practically a lord. I’m glad you aren’t, though. In my experience lords are stuffy and mean. Reckless and ruthless. Very good at shirking their responsibilities.”

  His shoulders went rigid. “Quite. I do like to think there is the odd decent one who is fair and pays his bills, though.”

  Rachel winced. Yet again, she had allowed her unruly tongue to have its way, and now she had offended him. He couldn’t know she loathed peers because her own father had left her mother penniless and alone to die, then refused to acknowledge his daughter or pay so she might be a school pupil rather than a servant who learned to count and read by candlelight. Or that the supreme snobbishness and hypocritical morality lectures of the aristocratic school patrons had done nothing to change her mind.

  But Arran could well have friends who were peers. Perhaps even a relative. He certainly appeared to have the funds to run about in such circles. “Of course. I fear I am a little biased. Some of the peers who inspected the school were…unpleasant.”

  “Ah,” he replied, relaxing. “That I understand. Charity can be cold indeed. I’d wager you had some patrons who sent supplies or a generous donation with a smile, and others who expected deity-like worship for a paltry sum.”

  “You would win that wager,” she said, unable to moderate the bitterness in her tone. “Foundlings have done nothing to warrant their circumstances. They should be treated with kindness and compassion. Who would choose a life of abject poverty and loneliness, forever being treated as though they were nothing?”

  Oh God. In the middle of a dress shop, and she’d raised her voice and given a lecture to a man utterly undeserving of it.

  “I mean…” she mumbled, her cheeks hot with mortification.

  “I know what you mean,” he said, surprisingly mildly. “And I agree. Children should not be held responsible for the decisions or mistakes of their parents. Now, I think we should purchase this cloak and get back for the church service. I don’t want us to get caught in a snowstorm. Especially as you have chosen the brown cloak rather than the yellow one.”

  Vastly relieved as his light humor eased the tension and indicated no animosity for her opinion, Rachel took his arm, and soon they were on their way back to the inn. Her new cloak was a cozy barrier against the chill, and it tempted her beyond measure to roll her old shawl into a ball and hurl it away. For again, her emotions were in a whirl. They clearly came from two different worlds, and yet Arran was unlike any man she’d ever met. Stern and yet kind. Unfailingly generous, both in bed and out.

  It might only have been a short time, but never had her heart been in such jeopardy.

  Chapter 4

  With every passing hour, Rachel intrigued him more.

  Leaning back in his chair, his stomach full to bursting after a plentiful Christmas supper of beef, boar’s head, a mix of vegetables, plum pudding soaked in brandy and cream, and mulled wine, Arran watched her conversing with another guest while almost unconsciously stacking plates and cutlery.

  Rachel had told him she’d fallen on hard times. Which was entirely plausible, but still didn’t feel like the whole truth. Her passionate defense of foundlings seemed very personal, as though she had attended such a school rather than merely assisted at one, and the way she tidied spoke of experience and great ease in dealing with many, many mouths to feed. Much more than a small household. He wanted to say something, like how much he admired those who started with little and worked hard to advance themselves. Back in his own parish he’d seen many examples with tenant farmers and small enterprises, and had even started a fund to assist in the purchase of newer tools. His next lofty goal was to ensure that every child on his lands, boy or girl, could read and write. And yet he could be wrong, because in other ways, Rachel was so transparently honest. Her emotions danced across her face, from the way she smiled and laughed, to her occasional uncertainty in the company of wealthy guests, to her irritation with boorish behavior.

  “Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen!”

  Arran turned to see the innkeeper Mr. Vine clapping his hands together at the front of the dining room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a treat in store. Mrs. Vine has organized a great many activities for your amusement on this holiest of days, where we celebrate the birth of our Lord. Gentlemen, if you will assist me in moving the trestle tables to one side, we shall be able to set up each parlor game.”

  “Parlor games?” called one giant bear of a laborer. “May as well give up now, you lot, I am the undisputed village champion these three years past.”

  “The game isn’t drinking, you reprobate,” said the slender redheaded woman next to him, and the dining room erupted in laughter.

  Mr. Vine shushed the crowd once more. “Now, for those of you passing through, we believe Christmas to be a time of goodwill and charity, so each parlor game will have a small entry fee of sixpence. This money helps to buy books for our village school. There will be music and cards and dancing, and on the west wall, in true Queen’s Standard tradition, mummers will perform, and also teach you how to juggle.”

  “Oh! I love to dance,” said Rachel, her face lighting up beside him. “And what a clever idea to raise funds for the school.”

  Arran shifted in his chair. While his family had always acknowledged Christmas with a sumptuous supper, attending church had been the limit of activities. This was far out of his realm of expertise. He would donate a sizeable fee to the school, as long as he didn’t have to sing, hurl objects in the air, or try and coordinate his oversized feet in time to music. “I’ll be relying on you, madam, to uphold the Elliott name,” he said.

  “You’re not going to join in?” asked Rachel, actually looking crestfallen.

  “I shall applaud your efforts,” he said. “And donate to the cause.”

  Except for the next few hours, as they made their way around the room, he found himself playing bloody damned parlor games. It started well, Rachel had a delightful singing voice and enchanted the other guests with her version of ‘Joy to the World’. But after a few more glasses of mulled wine, she cheerfully lost several hands of whist and nearly rendered one of the mummers unconscious with a particularly enthusiastic toss of a small wooden club. He was almost afraid of what might happen with a country dance, especially when she led him under a bough of mistletoe and brazenly kissed him on the lips in front of a crowd of cheering onlookers.

  It seemed Mrs. Elliott was determined to be crowned Lady of Misrule.

  “Rachel,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.

  “Yes, Arran?” she replied, fluttering her lashes at him.

  “I’m sure you remember our conversation about correction,” he murmured.

  Her cheeks pinkened. “I do.”

  Then, her gaze not leaving his, she went right up on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear: “When I think about it, my cunt aches. I want to touch myself.”

  Arran choked on a cough as a fierce wave of lust coursed through him, making his cock jerk. Yet before he could reply, she winked at him, and skipped away to join in a country dance. He watched her like a hawk the entire time, and she knew it, the little witch, as she sent him teasing smiles while her unknown partner, a burly, blond-haired man, twirled her around the space they had cleared.

  Soon Rachel returned, slightly out of breath, and took a long gulp of the lemonade Mrs. Vine had provided alongside the mulled wine and ale.

  “Did you enjoy your dance?” he said, unable to keep the edge from his tone.

  “Well, I would have enjoyed it much more if you were dancing with me. But you prefer to be a stern and glowering wallflower.”

  “I am not glowering,” he bit out.

  “Yes you are, Mr. Elliott,” she replied with an impudent grin, and this time when she went up on her toes, she rubbed herself against him for one sinfully seductive moment. “Hmmm. Poor dear,
so stiff and uncomfortable. The situation needs to be taken in hand, I think.”

  His jaw dropped at her provocation even as his cock throbbed, and yet he got the distinct impression her outrageous actions were strictly to get a reaction from him. No one else had noticed her hip shimmy, and in the din of music and singing and loud chatter, her whispered words had no chance of being heard by another. He was the one that would suffer, thanks to his damned form-fitting trousers. “Careful now. Actions have consequences.”

  “Oh?” she said, her eyes glittering. “Like what? Are you going to march me upstairs and spank my naughty bottom until it is as red as a holly berry? That seems appropriate for Christmas.”

  Arran froze. Here again was confirmation: Rachel wanted to be disciplined by him. She’d even specified how! “I—”

  “Do you want to dance, ma’am?”

  If glares could maim, the grinning, cocky Irish lad would have collapsed in a screaming heap, but like she had previously, Rachel winked and walked away on another man’s arm to begin a rousing quadrille. She peeped up at him over her partner’s shoulder, but the final straw came when her tongue darted out to wet her pouty lips.

  That did it. The wicked minx needed a firm lesson. At once.

  When she returned in a flurry of skirts, it was plain the lad had already fallen half in love with her, and Arran firmly suppressed the urge to rearrange his nose. “Another exuberant display, my dear.”

  “It was, wasn’t it,” she replied blithely. “He danced so beautifully, I do believe I could partner him for the rest of the evening.”

  “No.”

  The word dropped like a boulder into a pond.

  Rachel shivered. “N-no?”

  “We’ll be returning upstairs now,” he said quietly. “Misbehavior requires stern correction, and I’m afraid a spanking it must be.”

  Her eyes grew heavy-lidded, and Arran almost groaned when those sweet nipples hardened and pressed against the bodice of her gown. Hell and damnation, he should have purchased her a new one at the dressmaker. Because the way he felt right now, this gown would soon be in pieces on the floor. As would her stays and chemise. Only then would she receive her first lesson in the intertwined pleasure and pain of sexual discipline, something he understood now she had genuinely craved since the moment they met.

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, biting her lower lip.

  “Good. Then let us retire.”

  Oh God. Her silly, awkward plan to goad him into action had actually worked.

  As they moved across the dining room toward the narrow staircase that led to the guest rooms, Rachel had to press her lips together to stop a sound of pure excitement escaping. She was going to be spanked. And it wouldn’t be like those half-hearted swats she’d received at the school that had first awakened this unusual and overwhelming need inside her. No, Arran’s big, stern hands would make her submit to him in every way. That she was sure of.

  The thought sent a trickle of wetness between her thighs, and Rachel stumbled on the staircase as she attempted to hurry.

  Arran’s arm curled around her waist from behind, hauling her back against his chest. “Easy, kitten.”

  “But I need to be spanked now,” Rachel said bluntly, resenting even a tiny delay when she had waited to be taken in hand for what seemed like forever.

  “I know you do. Trust that very, very soon your luscious ass is going to be holly berry-red and dancing on my lap. But let us be clear on one point, though. There are rules and boundaries to be established before we begin; sexual discipline is for pleasure, not abuse. After that, you will obey my every instruction, or we will stop. Do you understand?”

  A wave of raw desire swept through her, and she nearly came, right there on the staircase. “Yes. Please, sir. Don’t make me wait any more. I can’t bear the ache.”

  A laugh rumbled in his chest, and he brushed the lightest of kisses across the back of her neck, tormenting her further. “You shall have to bear it. Orgasms are a reward, and I will permit you to come when you’ve earned them. While I may consider leniency as this is your first spanking, do not think to test or try me.”

  Rachel did moan then, helplessly aroused by his uncompromising words. He truly comprehended her need to be mastered in the bedchamber.

  “Walk, kitten,” Arran added, nudging her to continue up the staircase.

  The hallway seemed a mile long, but at last they reached their room. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside, then latched it behind them.

  “What…what should I do?” she asked hoarsely, as he walked straight to the fireplace and stoked it until a healthy blaze burned. “Lift my gown and bend over the bed?”

  His lips twitched as he removed his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, before rolling up his linen shirtsleeves. “No. You will be entirely naked. I want to see every inch of your beautiful body when I discipline you, especially that backside of yours.”

  It was almost unendurable, how slowly he undressed her. Every button took years, every rasp and swish of stay cords loosening seared her senses, and her breath came in shallow, unsteady pants long before she stood unclothed in the center of the room. Arran gently turned her, his hot gaze lingering on her rock-hard nipples, before moving down her fleshy belly to her soaking wet cunt, and back up to her face.

  “Good,” he said, and although his nod of approval was brusque, it felt like a caress.

  The way he drank in her naked form tempted Rachel to shun clothing for the rest of her life. In the past, she’d heard many cruel taunts about her weight and the size of her bottom, and while she’d never agreed with them and loved her ample curves, having a handsome gentleman regard her with such reverence was very nice indeed.

  “What should I do now?” she whispered, ready to completely submit to him.

  Arran regarded her. “Clasp your hands behind your back. You may choose if you want them bound with my cravat or not.”

  “Bound,” she replied, bowing her head and staring at the wooden floor, her cheeks hot. “Do you have another in your satchel? I’m…I’m not sure if I can be quiet tonight.”

  “You wish to be gagged, Rachel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Soon her wrists were secured behind her back in a firm but comfortable binding, and a clean length of linen had been folded in half, settled just in her mouth and fastened around her head. She was naked, bound, and gagged, and it felt so deliciously naughty. Freeing, even, like she could finally be her true self. The benefit of the gag soon became apparent as Arran expertly massaged her neck, shoulders, hips and belly, yet offered her taut, aching nipples and pulsing clitoris only brief grazes of his fingertips. Her moans of delight—and shrieks of frustration—were muffled by the linen.

  When her need grew so great she could scarcely stand up straight, and the juices trickling from her cunt fragranced the room, he led her over to the bed. Arran sat down with his thighs spread and directed her to lie across his lap. Her cheek and breasts rested on the bed, her belly on his left thigh, her bound wrists sat on the small of her back, and her legs stuck out straight behind her on his right thigh.

  The position left her near-helpless, and Rachel wriggled in anticipation.

  “Now,” said Arran. “If you want me to stop, hold up one finger. Show me that. Good. You may do that at any time. As I said before, this discipline is for pleasure, not to hurt or distress you. Are you ready?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  His first blow landed as a swat to the fleshy part of her bottom, a light sting that lasted no more than a few seconds, and she immediately arched in a signal for more. The second and third spanks were firmer, causing her skin to heat and prickle, and Rachel shuddered at the erotic contrast of having a warm backside when the rest of her remained cool. Then came the fourth and fifth, harder again, his fingertips catching the sensitive curve where her backside met her thighs, and she whined into her gag.

  “That is five, kitten. Have you learned your lesson?”

  Her finger
s remained resolutely flat. If he stopped now, before the heady sting and prickle of the spanking overpowered the ache between her legs, she would be furious.

  “Very well,” he continued. “I shall have to give you the same number again.”

  The sixth blow sent a flash of burning pain through her entire body, and a gasp tore from her throat at the resulting throb in her cunt. That had hurt but offered a truly splendid aftermath. Seven and eight were even firmer, each in a slightly different spot, and Rachel’s lower legs kicked up in protest while her eyes watered. The ninth spank had the impact of a fiery brand, hurling her into emotional turmoil as her mind embraced a soothing, peaceful clarity but her bottom writhed at the mistreatment, forcing a half-wail, half-shriek thankfully halted by the gag.

  The tenth catapulted her into a different realm. Following Arran’s harsh spank on her burning backside, his big hand rubbed slow circles on the raw, abused flesh. Rachel sobbed at a chaotic sensation of darkness and floating, like a boat adrift in a storm, her mind and body desperately trying to understand what was pain and what was pleasure. And then it was only ecstasy, as the anchor she’d been searching frantically for was his fingers stroking her swollen clitoris and pushing deep inside her dripping cunt. Swirling. Twisting. Teasing a spot so responsive she could only scream and scream into the gag as her orgasm exploded in a burst of light so intense she nearly fainted.

  She’d always suspected that a proper spanking might change her. What she hadn’t known was that it would start to heal some of the emptiness inside her, as the hurt and pain of her past she kept locked down deep was at last allowed a safe escape.

  The thrill was marvelous. A little frightening.

  And thoroughly overwhelming.

  So beautiful. So sensual. So submissive.

  Arran allowed himself one long moment to admire the exquisite sight of his woman—for indeed, she belonged to him in every way now—across his lap, shaking in the aftermath of a prolonged, intense climax. Her backside glowed as red as the holly berry she’d spoken of, a striking, erotic contrast to her creamy skin and the glistening pink of her cunt, and her inner walls pulsed around his fingers. When she lay still at last, he withdrew them, untied the linen binding from Rachel’s wrists, then leaned forward to tug the cravat from her mouth.