The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

  “And I don’t want that Romany anywhere near my horses,” Pierson said loudly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s why she did so poorly.”

  Ainsley turning, heard, and opened her mouth. Cameron held up his hand to forestall her.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Angelo, and there’s nothing wrong with Jasmine,” Cameron said.

  He would rather bash Pierson in the mouth, dump him back in the carriage, and send him home, but Cameron controlled himself. He wanted to train Jasmine—wanted to save her from this bastard—and if he angered Pierson, the man would simply take Jasmine away again.

  Cameron turned to gesture Angelo away, but Angelo had already moved from Jasmine, leaving her to one of Pierson’s grooms. Angelo would comply without rancor, which was why Cameron trusted the man.

  “Fine,” Cameron said. “Leave them both. I’ll see you at Newmarket.”

  Pierson didn’t even gloat. He simply looked down his long nose and turned back to his carriage, ready to rush back to his overly ornate house in Bath.

  Ainsley pressed her lips together. She knew what a struggle it was for Cameron not to shout what he thought at Pierson. He’d chosen to hold in his temper for Jasmine’s sake.

  Poor Jasmine looked a bit rattled from traveling. Her coat was flecked with lather, and her eyes were wide. A good rubdown and a turnout in a paddock so she could run off her nerves, that’s what she needed.

  Pierson’s groom, however, started leading Jasmine straight to a stall in the U-shaped stable yard. Jasmine obviously didn’t want to go. She’d bolt the moment she had the chance, if Ainsley were any judge.

  “Let her have a run,” Ainsley said. “Angelo.”

  Angelo said nothing, leaning against another stall door to watch.

  The groom shook his head. “His lordship’s order, m’lady. He’ll not let us go home until she’s safely locked away.”

  “Horses don’t like being locked away.”

  Ainsley had learned that as a child, and she’d seen it watching Cameron every day. If you had a nervous horse, you let them wander about the paddock and investigate the scary new landmarks, preferably with a horse who was calm and sedate. The new horse needed to feel safe, needed time to get used to things.

  The groom sighed. “Well, Lord Pierson likes it, and I like me job, so in she goes, begging your pardon, m’lady.”

  Ainsley folded her arms and let him go. What happened after Lord Pierson left would be different.

  Jasmine didn’t fight the groom, though she danced nervously. All would have been well, except for the stallion.

  He didn’t want to be shut up for the night. As soon as Raphael’s Angel was backed out of his cart, he snorted and danced and threw off the two grooms trying to keep him quiet. Cameron started for him, and Angelo clenched his fists as he watched, not daring to interfere.

  Jasmine heard the stallion and looked back to see what was happening. Not in fear, but with the calculating eye of a mischievous child.

  “Watch her,” Ainsley warned.

  The groom gave her an irritated scowl. She, a mere lady of the manor, was presuming to tell an experienced groom how to handle horses.

  The stallion danced out of reach, spied Jasmine, and headed toward her. Jasmine swung her hindquarters around and flicked up her tail—the horse equivalent of a lady sashaying her hips at a randy gentleman.

  The stallion let out a low, rumbling neigh and ran for her, two thousand pounds of black horse barreling into the narrow yard. Stable hands scrambled out of the way, and Ainsley danced aside as Jasmine, at the last minute, got the jitters.

  Jasmine threw up her head, breaking the halter rope, and whirled around, frantically looking for a way out. The stallion charged to pen her in, and both horses swung straight toward Ainsley.

  Chapter 24

  Ainsley’s world slowed. She saw Angelo’s eyes widen, the groom lunge for the stallion. Jasmine’s sweaty brown hide coming too close, the mare’s back undulating as she bucked. The stallion, a huge wall of horseflesh, ducked Jasmine’s flailing hooves, and swerved directly at Ainsley.

  Ainsley heard her own shout, felt herself raise her arms, her attempt at scaring them off. Then the acrid odor of excited horse, the forequarters and flying hooves of the stallion, his huge chest, his hot breath, wide red nostrils, white-rimmed eyes.

  Dimly she heard the stable hands and Daniel shouting, the whinnies of the other horses, and over it all, Cameron’s voice, terrible and harsh.

  The instant before the combined might of Jasmine and the stallion came to crush Ainsley alive, she felt herself rising into the air. A tight band squeezed her chest, choking out her breath, but she slid rapidly upward and over the top of the stall behind her.

  Both horses crashed into the wall where Ainsley had been standing, smashing through the boards. Ainsley landed in the soft hay in the back of the stall, rolling over Angelo, who seemed to be tangled up with her.

  Jasmine and the stallion whirled from the corner stall and out the way they’d come. They charged from the yard and lit out for the fields, two streaks of horse on the green.

  Angelo scrambled to his feet. “Are you all right, my lady?” He held out his hand to Ainsley, who took the bronzed lifeline.

  I think so. Ainsley opened her mouth to speak, and nothing came out.

  Cameron threw open the broken door and snatched Ainsley to her feet. Ainsley found herself crushed against him, Cameron’s strong arms like iron.

  “Ainsley.” His voice was broken. “Dear God . . .”

  I’m all right. Again, the words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t feel. She tried to put her hands on his shoulders, but they slid limply off. Shock, she thought. I’ll be fine once my heart starts beating again.

  Cameron lifted a flask to Ainsley’s lips, the metal cool, and the burn of whiskey trickled inside her mouth. Ainsley coughed, swallowed, and coughed some more.

  “Cam,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over.

  Cameron held her. Ainsley sank into him, closing her eyes as chill terror rushed through her. That had been too close.

  “Make sure Jasmine is all right,” she said worriedly.

  “Angelo’s gone after her.”

  “Angelo.” The word choked in Ainsley’s throat. “He pulled me out of the way.”

  “Aye, and I’m having a medal cast for him. Damn it, Ainsley.” Cameron cupped her face in his hands. “I thought . . .” His throat worked, and moisture formed on his lashes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Angelo is a quick thinker.” Her whisper was still too faint, and the words were lost.

  Cameron’s lips shook as he kissed her. Ainsley held on to him, Cameron the anchor in her spinning world. He was the only thing that kept her from tumbling down, and she clung to him, loving him hard.

  “Mackenzie!” Lord Pierson’s voice rang through the yard. “I told you to keep that Romany away from my horses.”

  Cameron set Ainsley aside, gentleness itself, and then he ripped open the stall door and went for Lord Pierson. The volley of broad Scots and filthy swearing that followed flooded the yard and drowned out Pierson’s bleated protests.

  By the time Ainsley picked her way out of the stable yard, her knees wobbling, Cameron was throwing Pierson into his carriage.

  A ring of men stood about, Pierson’s coachman and grooms doing nothing to help their master. Cameron’s grooms and jockeys glowered their anger and disgust. The unruly stallion had been caught by Angelo, the Romany speaking gently to it while it lowered its great head to Angelo’s hands.

  Jasmine, still elusive, cantered around the paddock, a string of grooms and Daniel trying to corner her.

  “Ye take your bloody stallion and get out,” Cameron bellowed. His voice was hoarse, the beast inside him no longer contained.

  Pierson, incredibly, still defied him. “If the stallion goes, you don’t get Jasmine.”

  “Take her off, then. Get your fucking horses out o
f my sight!”

  “Cam.” Ainsley tried to hurry to him, but her feet were too slow, her voice too soft. “No, don’t lose Jasmine.”

  The grooms moved to let her through, the men furious, but not at her. “You all right, my lady?” more than one asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” Her voice was breathless. “Cam.”

  “Ye haven’t even bothered to ask if my wife is all right.”

  “She shouldn’t be out here at all,” Pierson said. “Women belong in bed, not the stable yard.”

  Cameron’s fist flashed out, and Pierson fell backward into the coach, his face bloody. Cameron slammed the carriage door, and the coachman leapt up to the box, quickly turning the vehicle.

  The carriage’s hurrying wheels sprayed mud over Cameron, but he turned back to Ainsley, not noticing. As Pierson’s carriage moved toward the drive, Angelo managed to maneuver the stallion into his cart. A groom shut him in, and Angelo climbed out to head for the field to round up Jasmine.

  “Cameron,” Ainsley said as Cameron’s arms came around her again. “You can’t lose Jasmine. You love that horse.”

  “I almost lost you. Pierson can go to hell.”

  “But Jasmine. She doesn’t want to go with him.” Ainsley felt reaction setting in, her mind seeing again the black horse’s body and hooves swerving to crush the life out of her.

  Cameron caught her as her legs gave way. He swept her up into her arms and carried her swiftly to the house, past the servants who’d rushed out to watch, and up the stairs to Ainsley’s bedchamber.

  He set Ainsley down on her chaise near the fire, and she waved a weak hand in front of her face. “When did my life become so dramatic?”

  “When you agreed to marry me. It’s confounded cold in here.” Ainsley’s large bedroom had a fireplace, not a stove, and Cameron further ruined his shirt by shoveling more coal onto the hearth.

  The fire built, and the room warmed until Ainsley was sweating. Or maybe it was the heat of delayed shock.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  “I’m not going anywhere, love.”

  “But Jasmine.” Ainsley’s teeth chattered. “She didn’t mean to. They were just being horses. I was standing in the wrong place.”

  “Ainsley, shut it.”

  Cameron trickled water from a large pitcher to its basin and wet a towel. He tugged Ainsley’s torn gloves from her and began wiping her dirt-streaked hands. The water stung where her palms had been sliced by her fall.

  “Your hands are just as filthy,” Ainsley said. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and started to laugh. “And so is my face. I look awful.”

  “Hush now.”

  Ainsley heard voices outside the door. Two maids and a footman came in with a tub and ewers of steaming water, though Ainsley didn’t remember Cameron sending for them. Just as well he did. The mud in the stable yard, plus her scrambling journey over the door into the empty stall, had left her coated with dirt and horse leavings.

  She’d have to speak to Cameron about installing taps in his house—the maids had to haul water up the back stairs. It was too far for them, really. She tried to break away from Cameron to help them, but he held her back.

  “Hurry before it gets cold,” was all he said to them.

  The splashing of water sounded heavenly. The maids quickly filled the tub, and then all the servants filed out, including the lady’s maid who’d tried to stay to undress Ainsley. Cameron closed and locked the door behind them.

  Ainsley tugged at the buttons of her riding habit, but she couldn’t manage to open one. Cameron turned her around to face the roaring fire and undid all the buttons himself.

  “You’re growing quite skilled at that,” she said.

  Cameron peeled the broadcloth bodice from her back and rubbed her bare wrists. “You’re too cold. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

  “A few bruises, I think.”

  “More than a few.” Cameron loosened her corset and pulled it off, hand going to the tender spots on her back. “But these are from your rescue. Nothing broken, thank God.”

  “Thank God and Angelo. Very clever of him to climb through to that stall from the one beyond.”

  She’d seen the pulled-away partition between the stalls, the board walls made to be moved in case Cameron needed one large stall instead of two smaller ones. Ainsley had noted this absently while Angelo had helped her to her feet, the significance not really dawning on her.

  “I’d kiss him,” Cameron said. “If it wouldn’t make both of us sick. But he will get a huge rise in wages.”

  “He’s told me about the canal boats his family lives on,” Ainsley said. “I’d love to see them. I’ve never been on a Romany canal boat. Or any canal boat for that matter. Not something for a lady to do, I’ve been told.”

  “I will take you to his canal boat, and we’ll have his family glide us from the Thames to the Avon and back again, but after I get you warm.”

  Cameron was kneeling before her, tugging off her stockings, the rest of her body bare. Ainsley wondered when that had happened, and then Cameron lifted her in his arms and deposited her into the hot water.

  The water burned, stung, and felt so good. Ainsley sank back, letting the heat dull her senses.

  She wasn’t afraid of horses—she wasn’t, she told herself. They were beasts that did what beasts did—but never had she come so close to dying because of one. If Angelo had been one moment too slow . . .

  “Bloody Pierson,” Cameron was growling. “I didn’t ask him to bring that damned stallion. I was ready to kill him. If you’d been hurt, I would have killed him. I couldn’t have stopped myself.”

  Ainsley put a dripping hand on her husband’s arm. Cameron’s shirt was already wet, and he impatiently pulled it off.

  Ainsley rubbed her head on Cameron’s bare shoulder, liking how warm and solid it was. This strong, beautiful man belonged to her. The vicar in London had made her say so. With my body, I thee worship.

  Cameron let her go but only to take up the cake of soap and begin washing her all over. Soap got on him as he scrubbed her back and arms, slid soapy hands to her belly.

  “Get in with me,” Ainsley suggested.

  Cameron grunted a laugh. “I’m too big.”

  “We should have a large bathtub built then. One big enough for two. In our new bathroom. You really should hire some builders to start modernizing.”

  “Hush.” Cameron nipped her ear. “Let me tend to you, love.”

  Ainsley liked being tended to. Cameron slid his hands around her waist again, gliding soap up under her breasts, and Ainsley leaned back in happiness.

  “I love you,” she murmured.

  She probably shouldn’t have said that—would he want such sentiments? But there was nothing she could do about it. She did love him, and that was that.

  Cameron ended her speculations by kissing her.

  She tasted fierceness in him, the rage and fear he’d been holding back. He let it go in the kiss, mouth shaking. Cameron half lifted Ainsley out of the tub, and water sloshed over the sides and over him.

  “My Ainsley,” he whispered between kisses. “Mine.”

  Yes, Ainsley tried to say. Yours.

  Cameron’s breath heated her flesh better than the hot water. Hard, blunt fingers slid across her body, which was still slick with soap. Cameron opened her mouth with his, kisses hard and biting.

  He scooped her all the way out of the water. Cradling her against him, Cameron carried Ainsley to the bed, where he started to rub her dry with towels the maid had left warming by the fire. Ainsley’s skin warmed, the friction of the towels good.

  She especially liked the towel against her nipples, which began to tighten. Cameron leaned down and took a dusky point into his mouth, and Ainsley groaned. She leaned back onto the bed as Cameron teased the nipple with the tip of his tongue and suckled her again.

  Ainsley pulled on the towel that he’d wrapped between her legs. She closed her eyes and let out anoth
er sigh, more friction in a wickedly sensual place.

  Cameron’s eyes darkened. He took the ends of the towel from her and pulled it himself, little tugs that stroked across her female places. A noise of pleasure escaped her. Cameron kept up the pressure, and Ainsley gave in to it, her fears dissolving.

  Cameron wielded the towel masterfully. The mattress was soft on her back, Cameron’s warm body over hers. He was heavy on her, his solid chest pressing hers, the towel between them. Cameron tugged the towel again, and the hot fire sent her over the top.

  Ainsley wrapped her legs around him, wet feet against his boots. She couldn’t stop the noises that came from her mouth, her groans and cries loud in the gloom of the dying afternoon.

  When Cameron lifted away from her, taking the towel with him, Ainsley whimpered. Cameron’s mouth was pressed into a firm line, his brows drawn down. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the still-full tub. Standing up, he scooped water and soap over himself, washing away the dirt from the stables.

  Ainsley lifted herself on her elbows and enjoyed the sight. Cameron’s body gleamed with water, and soap clung to his chest, shoulders, and long, dark erection.

  He rinsed himself, casually lifting his balls to wash away the soap there. Soap suds chased themselves down his legs, then Cameron bent down to rinse his hands and scrub water over his face.

  He stepped out, snatching up another towel to rub himself dry. Ainsley watched him come for her, her tall god of a husband, water darkening his hair and dripping to his broad shoulders. His hands, forearms, neck, and face were deeply tanned, as were his lower legs, the skin that the kilt covered more pale.

  Ainsley assumed Cameron would lift her out of the bed to make love to her on a chair or the long sofa, or on the floor in front of the built-up fire. But Cameron tossed the towel away and pressed Ainsley back into the mattress.

  Cameron licked her mouth, his damp, warm body so wonderfully heavy on hers. “I almost lost you,” he said, voice harsh. “I never want to lose you. Never.”

  Ainsley’s heart beat thick and fast. He’ll tire of her in a sixmonth, she’d heard people say in Paris and again in Monte Carlo.