The Many Sins of Lord Cameron (16 page)

Ainsley stretched, her body pliant. “So I had to hide my face with a mask to gain your attention?”

“Careful with me, woman. I’m barely stopping myself ravishing you all over again.”

Cameron growled and swept a kiss across her mouth. Ainsley splayed her hands against his chest, feeling his heart pounding as swiftly as hers. She loved how large he was, how powerful. How safe she felt with the cushions at her back, and Cameron’s body between her and the world.

“Damn you, Ainsley,” he said. “You are the most enticing, beddable,
sensual
woman I have ever seen. I want to lie with you all night and all the next day. I want to do things to you and have you do them to me. There are cruder words for what I want, but I’m trying to keep in mind that you’re a lady.”

Ainsley’s heart tripped, but she smiled. “Now you have me curious. Tell me, Cameron. I’m not a fainting flower.”

Cameron put his mouth to her ear. The blunt syllables tapped through her—
fuck . . . suck. . . cunny . . . cock.
Ainsley felt a lightness in her limbs, a floating sensation that was warm and freeing.

Cameron raised his head, his smile so hot she thought she’d slide from the seat. “Is that what ye wanted to hear?” he asked.

“I don’t regret the question,” Ainsley said breathlessly.

“Good.” Cameron licked between her breasts. He tugged her legs around him again, but instead of pushing inside her, he held her close, the two of them entwined, face to face.

Ainsley kissed him as he kissed her, both of them tasting, licking, nipping, exploring. So many different sensations under her tongue—the sandpaper roughness of his whiskers; the smoothness that was his scar; the hot, wet point of his mouth; firm, masterful lips.

She kissed his cheek, smoothed his eyes closed with kisses, nibbled her way down his throat. Cameron murmured in pleasure and did it all back to her.

The carriage hit a hole in the road. Cameron held her so protectively that she never felt the bump, but the carriage abruptly slowed.

“Damn,” Cameron growled.

Ainsley didn’t want to let go of him. “What is the matter?”

Cameron gently unwound himself from her and hauled himself into the seat beside her. “We’re almost home.”

“Oh.” Ainsley fought back a wave of disappointment.

Cameron swept up her combinations and dropped them onto her bare skin, then knocked on the coach’s roof. The coachman, thank heavens, didn’t look down at them through the little peephole to see Ainsley in her naked glory. He merely halted the coach.

“Why are we stopping?” She felt cold without him around her, and she hugged the cotton combinations to her chest. “We haven’t turned into the drive yet, have we?” She hadn’t felt the turn, anyway.

“I’m getting out here.” Cameron slid on his shirt then shrugged on the waistcoat. He paused to kiss her, lingered, kissed her again. “I don’t want to risk us arriving together. I’ll walk across the fields, and you take the coach all the way home. Go upstairs and straight to your bedchamber. I’ll come to you there.”

Ainsley warmed. Again, she saw the gentle caring of this rough, brutish man. Cameron was leaving now to protect her and her reputation, not disappearing into the night, finished, having taken his pleasure.

“In my chamber?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to be in yours?” His wing of the house was almost deserted, while Ainsley was housed in a corner of the very busy guest wing.

Cameron draped his cravat around his neck but didn’t tie it. “Easier for me to explain why I’m in the guest wing if anyone happens along.”

Ainsley opened her mouth to protest, but Cameron growled. “Can you do
nothing
without arguing, woman?”

“Not really. I’m not used to following orders without question.”

“The Queen of England must put up with much, then. Turn around.”

Ainsley decided to do that without asking him why, and Cameron laced up her corset. He did it with quick competence, as skilled as any lady’s maid.

Cameron turned her around and kissed her again, this kiss lingering and slow. “You’re a beautiful, beautiful woman, Ainsley Douglas. And I want to drink you down.”

And wouldn’t Ainsley love that? She touched his face. “Soon.”

“Very soon.” Another kiss, and Cameron snatched up his coat and opened the door.

A rush of cold air filled the coach, blocked a little by Cameron’s body as he descended. “Damned soon,” he said.

He flickered his tongue, promising and sensual, and then he slammed the door, and was gone.

Before Ainsley could draw a ragged breath, the coach lurched forward, and she scrambled for her bodice and skirts. Outside she heard Cameron go, his cheerful whistle cutting the night.

Cameron paced his bedchamber, poured himself whiskey, paced some more, and drank, his eye on the clock. McNab lay sprawled on Cameron’s bed, the dog fully at home. McNab thumped his tail the first few times Cameron passed; then his eyes drooped and he began to snore. It was like a rusty saw, that snore.

Cameron drank and walked, his focus nowhere. He had to give Ainsley enough time get herself upstairs, give her maid a chance to fuss as she undressed Ainsley and put her to bed. Another quarter of an hour perhaps. His blood burned with impatience.

Again and again he felt the warmth of Ainsley around him, heard her laughter. Her astonishment when she’d reached climax told him she’d never had an orgasm before. Cameron couldn’t help but smile in triumph to know he’d been the first to make her feel it.

He knew he should be finished with her, having at last obtained what he’d wanted since that night six years ago in this very bedchamber. Challenge completed, the game won. He should at least be finished for the night, sated and sleepy, ready to make plans for the morning’s training. But he paced and wanted Ainsley again. Not just tonight but night after night.

He’d convince her to come to Paris with him. She had nothing to look forward to—more drudgery to the queen and duty to her brother and sister-in-law, hidden away until she became faded and forgotten.

Ainsley was too vibrant to be forgotten. Cameron would take her to Paris then Monaco. He’d dress her in the most costly gowns, give her jewels that would make every other woman on the Continent ill with envy. He’d take her to the finest restaurants and best theatres and let her enjoy herself. Then they’d retreat to the townhouse he leased in the best district and watch the city lights.

Ainsley was a delight to be with—she threw herself wholeheartedly into whatever she did, whether it was helping Isabella organize guests for Hart or fetching compromising letters for the Queen of England.

Cameron would watch her take Paris by storm. She’d grace his side at glittering Parisian soirees, stand at his elbow at the gaming tables in Monte Carlo. She was a beautiful, enticing woman, and Cameron wanted to be with her as much as he could.

“Devil take it all. She makes me insane. And damn it to hell, I can’t stop wanting her.”

McNab opened one eye, saw that nothing very interesting was happening, and closed it again.

The dog came alert a moment later at the same time Cameron heard hurried footsteps in the corridor. McNab gave one hopeful woof, then someone pounded on the door.

Damn it, I told her to stay put.

“Sir,” Angelo called through the door. “It’s Jasmine. I think you’d better come.”

Chapter 15

Night-Blooming Jasmine stood in the middle of her stall, her head bent to forelegs, sides heaving. Cameron slipped inside her stall, the heat in his body evaporating into fear.

It wasn’t colic or gas, because Jasmine would be circling the stall in agony or trying to roll. Instead she stood dejectedly, not raising her head as Cameron ran expert hands along her body. “What is it, girl? What’s wrong with my lass, eh?”

He tapped a fetlock, and Jasmine readily turned up her hoof. Cameron held it, Jasmine taking the opportunity to lean her entire body weight on him. The hoof wasn’t hot or the frog mushy or pus-filled. The hoof wall felt solid and sound as well. He checked her other feet, but all four hooves seemed fine.

Cameron set down the last hoof, Jasmine sighing disappointment that he wouldn’t hold her up any longer. When she raised her head, mucus ran from her nose and mouth to dribble down Cameron’s white shirt. She whuffed softly, a picture of misery.

Cam stroked her nose and turned to the stable hands who were hanging over the stall. “Not thrush or colic and nothing’s broken.”

Angelo flicked a dark Romany gaze over the horse. He’d have examined her already as soon as he noticed a problem, but he wasn’t offended that Cameron had checked her again.

“Could be poison,” one of the stable hands said.

Cameron’s heart constricted. “Let’s hope to God it’s not. Anyone been around here tonight?”

“No, sir,” Angelo said. “We keep a good watch.”

The other stable hands nodded. The men here worked for Cameron or Hart, had for years, and Cam doubted any of them could be bribed—both Hart and Cam paid high salaries and the men prided themselves on their loyalty. They loved the horses as much as Cameron did.

“Nothing to do but wait it out,” he said. “What did she eat?”

Angelo shook his head. “Nothing tonight. I tried to give her a few oats, and she didn’t want it, or good hay.”

Always a bad sign when a horse wouldn’t eat. They loved to eat, their raison d’être. Humans might think they’d tamed horses, Cameron reflected, but horses knew they’d trained humans to feed them.

“Could be pneumonia,” Angelo said, eyes unhappy. “Or the cough. What with her legging it through the countryside, there’s no telling what she might have picked up out there.”

Angelo’s explanation was the most likely one. The Scottish hills were cold, far colder than Jasmine’s home near Bath, and if she’d taken chill on her adventures, it could develop into something worse.

“What about the other horses?” The cough—a malady that made horses cough and sneeze, similar to the human cold—could spread quickly, and while it might not be deadly, horses couldn’t run until the disease played itself out. Pneumonia was a different matter. Jasmine could die tonight if she’d contracted it.

“Nothing wrong with the others,” Angelo said.

“Get warm water inside her,” Cameron said. “I’ll rub her down.”

“Warm water’s coming.” Of course, Angelo would have already sent someone running for some.

Cameron stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and fetched curry comb and dandy brush. Brushing horses was good for their circulation and kept them warm. They could send for the horse doctor, but no doubt he’d tell them the same things that Angelo and Cameron had concluded. Large bottles of tonic stood waiting in the tack room, but Cameron didn’t want to shove medicine down Jasmine until they knew what they were dealing with. Keeping her warm was the first consideration.

Jasmine didn’t react much while Cameron brushed her, except to lean her head on his shoulder. Angelo came with blankets, which they buckled around her. They had to put the water inside her with a tube, because she refused to drink.

The night was crisp and cold now, and Cameron thought regretfully of Ainsley’s bedchamber warmed with fire and her body against his. But he also knew that when he told Ainsley tomorrow why he hadn’t come to her, she’d understand. Not only understand, but demand to be kept informed of Jasmine’s progress. He couldn’t think of any other woman who’d not be angry that she’d been eclipsed by a horse, but he knew Ainsley would think him right to stay with Jasmine.

Cameron finished and left the stall. Jasmine draped her head over the door, seeking Cameron, and he stroked her neck.

“It’s all right, girl. I’ll not leave you.”

Angelo had already run for a blanket, a fresh shirt, and a new coat for Cameron. Cam wondered often what he’d do without Angelo, the Romany he’d rescued from certain death one night near Cameron’s Berkshire estate. A group of men from Hungerford had run eighteen-year-old Angelo to ground after they’d caught him stealing enough food to get his family, waiting on a canal boat, through another day. They’d trashed the food and started beating Angelo, knives coming out to assure that the Romany thief wouldn’t live to see the morning.

This had happened not long after Elizabeth’s death, when Cameron had first purchased the estate. Cameron had been riding in the dawn light, drunk and unable to sleep. He’d welcomed the chance to join the fight, ran off the locals, took Angelo home, and gave him food for his family from his own kitchen. He’d walked with Angelo to the boat waiting on the Kennet and Avon Canal, which had been overflowing with people—Angelo’s parents, grandparents, bothers, and sisters, and about a dozen children.

Cameron had left him there, assuming he’d seen the last of the man, but Angelo had turned up again at Cameron’s stables not many weeks later. There was no better race fixer in the country than himself, Angelo had claimed, so he’d know how to watch out for all the tricks. He’d protect Cameron’s horses in exchange for a place to sleep and the occasional money to give to his family.

That’s how it started, but Angelo proved to be more competent and loyal than anyone Cameron had ever met. Now Angelo looked after Cameron with the same intensity. Angelo knew Cameron’s moods and what plagued him, knew of his nightmares and dark memories, and was always there with a drink or a sleeping draught or just an ear to listen. Without Angelo, Cameron knew he’d have gone mad long ago.

Now Angelo arranged the blanket and flask of brandy for Cameron and folded himself into another corner to watch.

In spite of his worry for the horse, Cameron felt loose, warm, still filled with the sensation of Ainsley. He was half drunk with the whiskey he’d downed while pacing, and as he slid into waking dreams, he reached for the scent and joy of Ainsley.

What he got was a recurring nightmare about Elizabeth. After Daniel’s birth, Elizabeth had fallen into severe melancholia. Whenever she roused herself from it, the first thing she tried to do was hurt Daniel. The nurse and maids at Kilmorgan protected him fiercely, but Elizabeth could be cunning.

Cameron’s dream turned to the fateful day when he’d rushed to his bedchamber after hearing Daniel’s screams, to have her come at him, knife in hand. Elizabeth had stolen the knife earlier that day from Cameron’s father’s collection, which meant she’d thought this through. She’d lain in wait in Cameron’s chamber with Daniel as her hostage, intending to kill them both.

The dream turned from the streak of pain when Elizabeth had slashed the knife across Cameron’s cheek to her turning that knife toward the innocent Daniel on the bed. Cameron relived his watery panic as he dove for Daniel and rolled across the bed with him. He’d had to fight Elizabeth when he gained his feet, trying to keep the already bloody blade from Daniel.

He couldn’t remember what he’d roared at her, or what he’d done, but Elizabeth had stumbled backward, screeching obscenities at the top of her voice. Cameron had whirled Daniel away to the other side of the room.

Elizabeth had turned the knife on herself. Cameron heard again the horrible gurgle as the knife slid into her throat, saw the scarlet blood that rained down her neck to her dress. She’d stared at it in shock, then up at Cameron with a mixture of fury and hurt betrayal, before she’d crumpled to the ground.

Then the shouting as the household tried to get into the room, Daniel’s infant screams, then Hart’s gruff voice bellowing at Cameron to open the damned door. Hart had broken it down to find Cameron cradling Daniel in his arms, desperately trying to quiet him, and Elizabeth on the floor in a pool of her own blood.

Cameron’s dream jumped forward to the funeral—Cameron in soot black, wind stirring the crepe trickling from his tall hat. He stood rigidly next to his father and Hart as the Scottish vicar droned on about the wickedness of this transitory world and how Elizabeth was welcomed as a sister with joy into the next.

He remembered how their father had growled as soon as the vicar finished that Cameron had made bad job of it, losing himself a wife before she could push out more babies. If Cameron had only brought Elizabeth to heel, the old duke said, she would have been more obedient and not such a damned whore.

Hart had turned and crashed his fist into their father’s face, while the vicar watched in horror. Hart’s voice had held terrible anger as he’d said to their father, “You are dead to me.”

Cameron had stood by numbly, not really giving a damn. Afterward, he’d gone upstairs, told Daniel’s nurse to pack his things, and had taken Daniel, nurse and all, to London that very afternoon.

Cam’s dreams were cut by feminine laughter and a scent he already loved. He opened his eyes to see Ainsley, dressed once more in sensible gray—buttoned to the chin again—give Jasmine a bannock. The horse sniffed it, lipped it, then took it from Ainsley’s hand and crunched it down.

“Daniel, another,” she said.

Daniel took a second oat cake from a hamper and handed it to Ainsley. Ainsley fed it to Jasmine, who ate it with enthusiasm and reached for more. Angelo sat cross-legged in his corner, arms on his knees, watching with interest.

The images and dreams floated away in the cold dawn light, birds coming awake outside in the yard. Cameron’s eyes were sandy, but he felt strangely alert and rested.

“Was that meant to be my breakfast?” he asked.

Ainsley turned beautiful gray eyes to him. “That’s what I told your cook. My brother Patrick’s horse always loved bannocks when she grew ill. It seems far more effective than any draught in a black bottle.”

“She does seem to be perking up, Dad.” Daniel stuffed another bannock into Jasmine’s mouth, and Jasmine ate it greedily. Her nose still dripped mucus, but her miserable look had gone.

Horses were maddening. They could be right as rain in the morning and drop dead that night, or be as near death’s door as a horse could get and then make a full recovery a few hours later.

Jasmine couldn’t not feel better with Ainsley hand- feeding her. The horse crunched the next oatcake as Cameron got to his feet.

“You’re awake then,” Ainsley said. “You were twitching a bit when we came in. Bad dreams?”

“Nothing important.” Cameron heaved himself to his feet and went to stand next to her, absorbing her warmth. He couldn’t very well tell her,
I’m sorry I didn’t come to your room and finish our debauch,
in front of his son, Angelo, and the other men, but the look she gave him told him he didn’t need to say a word.

“Are the letters safe?” she whispered to him.

He nipped her earlobe as he answered. “Locked in my room, and no one, but no one is allowed in there but Angelo, and he’s incorruptible.” He gave her a pointed look. “Remember that.”

Ainsley sent him a cheeky grin. “I’ll consider it.”

Jasmine ran her horsy nose across Ainsley’s placket and closed her teeth over one of Ainsley’s buttons. Ainsley squeaked as Jasmine jerked off the button. Cameron swiftly took it out of Jasmine’s mouth before she could swallow it and pulled Ainsley back as Jasmine reached for more.

“You see?” Cameron said, lacing his arms around Ainsley from behind. “She knows exactly what should be done with all those buttons.”

Ainsley and Daniel went inside for breakfast soon after that, but Cameron remained. Training needed to begin, sick horses or no. The routine never stopped, and Cameron had the other racers to consider.

But he felt good. His crazed dreams had dissolved like mist in the sunlight, and he was back to remembering being inside Ainsley. Jasmine seemed to have passed her crisis, and if she were truly better, Cameron would arrange to spend that night with Ainsley. And the next night, and the next. All winter, in fact. He’d send telegrams to his man of business in Paris to begin the lease of his usual house and to hire a lady’s maid for Ainsley.

He hoped that Ainsley would return to the stables while he worked, but she didn’t. Cameron rode with Angelo and the others and didn’t see her among the guests that turned up to watch the training. She’d likely been pressed into service by Isabella again.

When Cameron returned to the house hours later to wash and change, he nearly ran into Beth coming in through the front door in bonnet and gloves. The house was quiet, the guests nowhere in sight.

“Is Ainsley with Isabella?” Cameron asked Beth.

Beth blinked at him in surprise. “With Isabella? No, Ainsley’s gone. I’ve just come back from putting her on the train.”