“I was going to shout for the police. I can scream very loudly.”
Cameron took Ainsley’s arm and steered her back toward the casino, where a crowd pretending not to be interested had gathered. “We’re leaving.”
“That’s likely a good idea.”
Cameron was already signaling for his servant to run for his carriage. Another hurried back inside for Ainsley’s wraps, emerging with them as the carriage rolled up.
Ainsley and Cameron rode in silence as the coach bumped its way back to the hotel, Cameron staring out of the window.
She sensed his restlessness and knew that but for her presence, he’d have been striding up and down the streets of Monte Carlo to burn off his rage. Cameron was escorting Ainsley home for her protection, not because he wanted to go himself.
“I thought you were going to kill him,” she said into the darkness.
Cameron looked down at her. “Hmm?”
“Durand. You couldn’t have known that wagon would be there.”
His eyes glinted. “The drop wasn’t that high. I wanted to scare him off. I am many things, my wife, but not a murderer.”
“Not when there’s a cartload of dung handy, certainly.”
“I hope it ruined his opera cloak. I hate the damn things.”
Ainsley wormed her fingers under the crook of his arm, felt his rigidity, his knowledge that she’d heard every word Durand had said. “I dislike to ask an obvious question,” she said. “but why did you marry Lady Elizabeth in the first place?”
Cameron grunted. “She dazzled me, I suppose. I was still at university, saw a glamorous woman, and I snatched her up. I found out too late what she was like, and by then, she was carrying Daniel.”
And Cameron had wanted to keep her close to protect the unborn Daniel. “I know you don’t wish me to say this, but I’m sorry,” Ainsley said. “I’m sorry about all that’s happened to you. It shouldn’t have.”
Cameron rested his big hand over hers. “But it did. And I live with the ghosts.” He looked down at her, his eyes holding more warmth. “The ghosts haven’t plagued me as much lately.”
Now she did dare to snuggle into him, and he kept hold of her hand.
“I had some other news today,” Cameron said after a time. “From Pierson. I meant to tell you, but then Daniel . . .”
Ainsley felt a chill. “About Jasmine? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, or at least, I think she is. I wrote to Pierson, and I got his answer today. Bloody man won’t see reason. I want that horse, Ainsley.”
“And he won’t sell?”
“No, but I’ve at least browbeaten him into letting me train her again. He now informs me I will do it for no training fee, in return for the money he lost because I couldn’t make her win at Doncaster.” Cameron made a noise of disgust. “I wager all other trainers turned him away, and he’s desperate. He wants to pretend he’s not desperate, that he still has the upper hand. Ingrate.”
“You’ll turn him down, then?”
Cameron looked at her, eyes still burning with anger. “Hell, no. I don’t need the money. I need Jasmine.”
Ainsley rubbed his shoulder. “You want to go back to England, don’t you, Cam? Right now, I mean.”
He didn’t look at her. “I want to train her, Ainsley. I’ll make her into a damn good racer. She has so much potential, all wasted by Pierson.”
“What I mean is, you hate it here. It doesn’t matter how many sunrises we watch from the top of the hill, or how many times you win at cards. Your heart’s not in it. You’re made to be standing in a paddock holding a lounge line, not sitting at a baccarat table.”
Cameron reached down to smooth a lock of her hair. “And what the devil will you do while I’m standing in a paddock holding a lounge line?”
“Watch. Ride. Be the lady of the manor. Trust me, I’ll have plenty to do.”
Cameron ran his thumb along the thin gold bracelet he’d given her for New Year’s. “My estate in Berkshire is far from any city. There’s nothing to do there but horses. And my brothers will drift down to the estate when I start training. They use it as an excuse to escape whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing.”
“It sounds perfect.” Ainsley grew animated. “We can invite them all, Beth and Isabella and the children if they can manage it. They’re both due in late spring. Or afterward if they can’t come in spring. I’m certain we can have a lovely summer party with everyone there.”
Ainsley broke off when she saw Cameron’s look, a man contemplating his bachelor home overrun with women, babies, and nannies.
“It’s just a thought,” she said quickly. “Are you telling me, Cam, that we’ve stayed here all this time because you thought I liked it here?”
“You do like it here.”
“Well, yes, it’s exciting, but not what I want to do forever.”
Cameron watched her with a pensive look. “You’re a woman, Ainsley.”
“Yes, I know that. I have been for many years.”
“You’re supposed to want a constant flow of gowns and jewelry and to be seen in them every night.”
“The endless parade of fashion can become a bit dull.”
“You’re bored?” His frown deepened. “You should have told me. I can take you anywhere. Rome, Venice, even Egypt if you want.”
Ainsley put her fingers to his lips. “Why should we flutter around the world? I don’t wish to if it means I watch you be unhappy and impatient.”
Cameron gave a restless sigh. “I don’t understand what you want, Ainsley.”
“I want to be with you.”
“While I’m knee deep in mud? My estate is miles from any restaurant.”
“Good. I’d love a bit of old-fashioned Scottish cooking. Your Berkshire cook knows how to make bannocks and porridge, doesn’t she?”
“She’s Scottish.”
“Well, then that’s settled.”
“Ainsley, stop. Stop being so damned cheerful about everything.”
“I can be grumpy if you want.” She gave him a mock scowl.
Cameron didn’t laugh. “I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me what it is.”
Ainsley lifted the fist he’d rested on his thigh and kissed his large fingers. “I’m trying to tell you. You’re a generous man, and I can’t lie and say I don’t want the beautiful frocks and jewels you give me. But really, I ran away from my respectable life to be with you. You, Cameron Mackenzie. I don’t care if we’re in the most expensive hotel in Monte Carlo or in a hovel with nothing but oat cakes for dinner.”
The look he gave her bordered on the anguished. “Why the hell would you want that?”
“I like oat cakes. Especially with a little honey.”
“Damn it, I mean why would you want me? Look at you. I’ve introduced you to the most corrupt of the demimonde, and you sit there all pristine and innocent, smiling at me, for God’s sake.”
“What should I be doing? Demanding more jewels? Breaking plates and screeching if I don’t get them? Threatening to leave you for a man who will buy me more?”
“It’s what they all do.” His voice was hollow.
“You see, you do despise women. I told you that before, remember?”
“I despise women like what you describe, yes.”
“Then have nothing more to do with them. Let’s go to Berkshire and say to hell with the lot of them.” When Cam eyed her skeptically, Ainsley wrapped her arms around him and ruffled the hair on the back of his neck. “It’s what I truly want, Cameron. The horses, the mud, and you.” She kissed him.
And so, they went to Berkshire.
Cameron had never brought a woman to his Berkshire estate, Waterbury Grange, which lay south of Hungerford. He’d bought the place after Elizabeth’s death, needing a retreat far from Kilmorgan and his father and Elizabeth’s grave.
He’d hired a houseful of servants, let Daniel run wild, and concentrated on horseracing. Newmarket, Epsom, Ascot, the St. L
eger—these were the events around which his world revolved.
Needy mistresses didn’t fit into that world. Ainsley, on the other hand, slid into it without breaking stride. She took over the running of the house from the moment she arrived, soon discovering and curtailing the servants’ long-running practice of keeping the best foodstuffs for themselves while serving the offhand Cameron what was left over.
Cameron found her indignation about the way they took advantage of him amusing. “These people kept me alive when I first moved here, and they looked after Danny for me. I don’t begrudge them.”
“There is a world of difference between begrudging them and dining on gristly salt pork while they feast on tender beefsteak.”
Cameron shrugged. “Do what you like. I’m not good with domestic arrangements.”
“Obviously not,” Ainsley had said with a frown.
Cameron couldn’t deny that Ainsley had been right to bring them back here. January winds were brisk and raw, but the worst of winter’s grip soon departed and he and Angelo, with Daniel in tow, began training in earnest. Cameron found that he looked forward to rising before dawn every morning and leading out the horses with Daniel as the sun rose.
Pierson had not yet rolled up from Bath with Jasmine, and Cam wondered whether the man would bring her at all. Other than that, training commenced in a satisfactory way.
Cameron’s stables were true working stables, with multiple trainers, people coming and going, and a well-run routine. Angelo was second-in-command, and any trainer, stable hand, or jockey who had trouble with this was asked to leave. Angelo knew the horses as well as Cameron did and could glide onto them bareback to run them to the clock. The trainers who’d been with Cam the longest had come to respect Angelo, saying, “He knows what he’s doing, that Romany.”
As for Cameron, once he had the Berkshire wind in his hair, and felt the young horses’ excitement coming to him through the lounge line, his ennui fled. Once again, he was awake and alive. When he and Daniel went back to the house each afternoon, Cameron had another bright spot in his life—Ainsley.
She fit smoothly into the household as though she’d lived there her entire life. The housekeeper, who’d never spoken much to Cameron except when absolutely necessary, kept a constant conversation running with Ainsley as Ainsley questioned her on all aspects of the housekeeping. Ainsley now had her own set of keys, and the housekeeper began saying, “Let me ask her ladyship,” when any question came up.
The staff here were quiet, undemonstrative, well-trained domestics, apart from their now-ended habit of skimming off the foodstuffs. If they didn’t actually burst into song and dance about Ainsley, they at least respected her.
Even the one point of contention between Cameron and Ainsley—the fact that Cameron left her every night to sleep in his own bed—seemed to ease a little as spring commenced.
Or so Cameron thought. He should have remembered that Ainsley was very good at stealth.
The locks in Cameron’s old manor house were easy to pick. The doors and locks were leftover from a hundred years ago, when the house had been built, and several of them even opened with the same key. Ainsley had practiced picking the locks from the day she arrived, which was how she’d discovered the cache of foodstuffs the servants had kept for themselves.
On a moonless night, she crept down the hall the short distance from her bedroom to Cameron’s, hairpin at the ready. She knelt softly on the carpet, listening to his snores from within for a time before she quietly moved the old- fashioned keyhole cover on its tiny hinge.
And found herself faced with a shiny new lock. He’d changed it.
Botheration.
Ainsley let out her breath, but she refused to give up. She had to work a little harder on this lock, and in the end it took two hairpins, but finally Ainsley had it open. She stood up, her heart beating swiftly, and very quietly opened the door.
The room was dark, save for the glow of coals on the hearth. She’d made certain to visit Cameron’s bedchamber often, so she’d studied the lay of the land. Unless he’d decided to rearrange the furniture at eleven o’clock last night, his bed would be that direction. The continuing snore told her she was right.
Ainsley softly closed the door behind her and started across the room.
“Ainsley.”
The word was hard, clear, and told her that Cameron was fully awake.
“Drat you,” she said. “You only pretended to be asleep.”
A match spurted and a kerosene lamp glowed to life. It showed Cameron sitting up in his bed, his lap covered with a sheet, the rest of him delectably bare.
“I was asleep. Then I heard the unmistakable scratch of a thief trying to pick my lock.”
“Your hearing must be very good then.”
“It is.”
Ainsley took another step. “Did I frighten you?” He’d told her he’d wake up in violence when he was startled. She’d planned to wake him as gently as she could, to show him that nothing terrible would happen.
Cameron’s smile was hot. “When I hear someone picking a lock, I immediately think of you. Not to mention the little mutters of frustration you make when the lock proves challenging. What are you doing in here?”
Ainsley closed the distance between the door and his bed. “I came to sleep with my husband.”
“Ainsley.”
She put her knee on the mattress. “You refuse to talk about it, but I refuse to let matters stand as they are. Beds are for sharing. Especially beds as large as this one.”
Cameron lunged for her. Before she could scramble away, Ainsley found herself dragged onto the bed and pinned to the mattress, much as he had the night she’d broken into his room to search for the queen’s letters. The difference was that last time, he’d been more or less fully dressed. This time, nothing rested between Cameron’s bare body and Ainsley but a sheet.
She felt every inch of his hard body—every inch—the strength of his hands, the heat of his breath.
“Do you need reminding how dangerous I am?” he growled.
“You’re not dangerous.”
Cameron pinned her wrists to the mattress with his weight and gave her his hot, wicked smile. “No? Perhaps I should demonstrate.”
Did she want him to or didn’t she? A wise woman should be frightened of a giant rising over her in the dark, looking ready to ravish her, but Ainsley was not wise. Or maybe she was. She’d married him.
“Not necessary,” she said.
Cameron licked across her mouth. “Necessary. I don’t want things becoming too domestic.”
So he’d told her on the train when he’d proposed. He wanted a lover, not a wife.
“Well,” she said. “Perhaps a small demonstration.”
Cameron rose abruptly from the bed, lifting her up with him, and the sheet fell away. He was naked in the dim light, his cock long and hard, his wanting unashamed. From Ainsley’s position on the edge of the bed, it was easy to grasp him in her hand, draw him a little to her.
Cameron tensed all over as he felt Ainsley’s sweet lips and tongue brush the tip of his cock. God help me. He’d been about to lay her on the floor and make deep, hard love to her, in retaliation for her sneaking into his room, but she’d turned the tables on him. Again.
She’d not done this before, but she’d seen his erotic drawings and heard the naughty things Cameron whispered into her ears. Ainsley wasn’t naïve, and she obviously wanted to play.
He almost came as he watched her open her lips and then his hardness slide between them. Cameron clenched his fists, his entire body rigid as he held himself back. If he came now, he’d miss this feeling of being inside Ainsley, the feeling of her licking him, nipping him, the wonderful pull when she began to suck.
“Ainsley.” The word was ragged, his breathing hoarse. He put his hand on her head, rocked his hips. “Ainsley. Love. What are you doing to me?”
Happily, she didn’t answer. Ainsley kept her mouth busy with him, her hands stead
ying herself on his thighs.
“Devil woman,” he whispered. “I am supposed to be making you pay.”
For answer, Ainsley worked him harder. Cameron heard the words spill out of his mouth, naughty syllables that had led to this situation in the first place.
Beautiful, beautiful Ainsley . . . damn it.
He shouted out loud as his seed spilled from his body, and he didn’t want to stop when she demurely pulled away and wiped her lips with her fingertips.
Cameron growled, a bestial sound. When Ainsley merely smiled at him, he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the room, where he proceeded to make deep love to her on the thick rugs before the fire. He loved her so thoroughly that she was fast asleep by the time he carried her back to her own bedroom and left her there.
Lord Pierson delivered Jasmine in the first week of February. Cameron watched him driving up the road at a snail’s pace, following the low-slung cart that contained Jasmine.
Cameron dismounted the horse he’d been riding and tossed his reins to the jockey, who sprang lightly into the saddle. Cam walked out of the paddock to meet the cart and carriage at the stable, but he stopped in surprise when another low-slung cart turned in.
Pierson stepped out of his carriage, making sure his pristine boots didn’t land anywhere muddy or damp. His neatly tailored clothes were a sharp contrast to Cameron’s rough coat and riding breeches.
“Well, Mackenzie,” Pierson said. “I’ve brought her back. You won’t make a pig’s breakfast of it this time, will you?”
Cameron watched the second cart approach and halt. “And what’s in that, then?”
“A stallion. He’s called Raphael’s Angel, and he’s giving me problems. I’d like you to sort him out for me.”
“And why should I do that?”
“For losing me the St. Leger. No one wants Raph’s Angel, but everyone says if anyone can turn him around and make him sellable it’s you. I thought that you’d do it for me as a favor.”
Jasmine’s cart had been taken all the way into the stables. Daniel and Ainsley appeared as if by magic as Angelo started to unload her.