had to end before we could be together properly, but there was a misunderstanding over a note at the inn, and she disappeared into the fog. So, if you will just tell me where she is, I can call off the search parties. Oh yes, and sleep and bathe and change clothing.”

“I am here, my lord.”

Arran sucked in a sharp breath. There she stood, framed in his drawing room doorway.

Rachel was really here. In his home.

Safe.

Safe and beautiful. So damned beautiful and lush…wearing the brown cloak he had purchased for her at the dressmaker’s shop near the inn.

His vision blurred, forcing him to pinch the bridge of his nose to halt a most unseemly display of emotion. Then his feet were marching toward her, and her heels were clicking on the marble floor as she ran to him with a choked cry and flung herself into his arms.

“Kitten,” he said hoarsely, struggling to get any further words out past the boulder in his throat at the feel of her wrapped around him at last, right where she belonged. “You’re home.”

She cuddled close, wetting the linen of his shirt with tears. Unable to bear her distress, he gently wiped them away with his thumbs before kissing her, his lips devouring hers, his tongue demanding entry into her mouth. She surrendered with a carnal moan, rubbing her breasts against his chest in the familiar way that signaled her need to be mastered at once.

“A-hem.”

They both stilled and looked guiltily at Jarrow, but Arran refused to let Rachel go. “My lord?”

The other man looked a little green around the gills, but to be fair, it was his sister being kissed senseless. “As Rachel’s guardian, in regard to propriety…oh do cease and desist, Kyle, that deadly glare is wasted on me…I shan’t insist on separating you until marriage. However, I propose a meeting at my townhouse tomorrow to discuss terms, followed by a prompt visit to the archbishop for a special license. A very prompt visit. I shall return to my Celia now. Good day.”

Jarrow bowed and left the townhouse, and Arran immediately took the opportunity to kiss his woman senseless again. Rachel’s brother had been correct, separation would be pointless. This would be her home now, and she would reign here as Marchioness of Kyle, and his adored submissive lover in bed.

“I thought,” he said eventually, his voice so low and gritty with relief it damned near rumbled, “that I might have to duel him to find you. But he insists on a wedding, and a fast one at that.”

Rachel’s cheeks went pink. “Well, ah…”

He leaned back a little. “What is it?”

“It would be better if we married quickly. I, um…missed my bleeding.”

“You’re with child?” he said, awed and thrilled at the thought.

“I might be. I cannot bear the scent of meat cooking anymore, and coddled eggs turn my stomach. It is your fault entirely, my lord, coming so hard inside me like you did,” she finished with an impudent grin.

“I did, didn’t I?” he mused, pure joy sweeping through him like a spring tide.

“But you should have told me you were really a marquess. And about that contract with Lady Sarah. When I thought you were married and only wanted me for bed sport…”

“It made you think that history would repeat? Your mother and the previous Lord Jarrow, I take it?”

“Yes. She died in childbed, and he abandoned me to a foundling hospital. Harry didn’t know he had a sister until he found some papers in his father’s desk. Does that…does that change things for you? That I am illegitimate?” she asked, biting her lip.

“No. Never. You are not responsible for your father’s actions. Although I must add, it is just as well he is dead. For what he did to you and your mother…”

Rachel smiled. “He is not important. Not now. Not when I have a brother, and sister-in-law, and a niece or nephew about to be born. And best of all…I have you.”

“Almost, madam,” he growled. “But first we need to discuss the consequences of your running away from the inn and frightening twenty years from my life.”

“Consequences?” she repeated, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Indeed. Stern correction is required. Upstairs.”

“Yes, sir!”

The marquess’s bedchamber was by far the most luxurious she’d ever seen in her life. Walls covered in cream silk, surrounded by dark wooden paneling, and woven rugs on the floor so thick and soft her feet sank into them. In one corner sat a large desk, piled high with leather-bound books, papers, and inkpot and quill, in another there was a polished stone fireplace with a healthy golden-red blaze, and two overstuffed chairs and a low card table in front of it. But the enormous four-poster bed dominated the room, intricately carved from what looked like mahogany, and made up with linen so fine it would be like sleeping on water.

At the present time, Rachel stood naked and bound to the left end post, her legs spread, while Arran teased her bottom and thighs with a new riding crop he’d fetched from a locked armoire in his dressing room. He’d refused to gag her today, saying he wanted to hear every whimper and sigh and moan she made for him. But even as Arran promised heaven, he withheld it. The light tickling of the leather crop as it danced across her skin was a torment when she craved the perfect union of pain and pleasure like he’d shown her at the inn.

“Harder,” she begged. “Like before. So my backside is holly berry-red!”

In response his touch lightened further, the end of the crop barely brushing the soaked thatch of curls guarding her mound, and cruelly avoiding her throbbing clitoris entirely. “Oh? You think you deserve to come, do you, kitten?”

“Y-yes.”

“I disagree. You left me. Do you know how worried I was, thinking you might have been hurt in the snowstorm?”

Rachel rested her forehead against the cool, smooth wood of the bedpost. “I’m sorry,” she whispered,

Вы читаете Mistletoe Mistress
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