The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

  Daniel swept Ainsley into a strong hug. “I knew you’d come back. Didn’t I say so? Dad!” he bellowed up the stairs as he set Ainsley on her feet. “It’s Ainsley!”

  “He knows, lad.” Mac laughed. “I think the whole county knows.”

  Cameron clattered in through the back passage, the entrance he used when returning from the stables, and everyone went silent.

  Cameron halted on the flagstones when he saw Ainsley, his boots and riding breeches splattered with mud. It was all Ainsley could do not to rush to him, her tall, strong horseman with the topaz eyes.

  “Hello, Cam,” she said.

  Cameron’s scarred cheek moved, but the rest of him remained still.

  “I’ve brought my brother with me. Cam, this is Patrick McBride.”

  Patrick made a little bow. “How do you do, your lordship?”

  Cameron dragged his gaze to Patrick, made a stiff, polite nod, then moved right back to Ainsley.

  Hart laid his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Mr. McBride, why don’t we wet your throat with a little Mackenzie malt?”

  Patrick brightened and followed Hart into the parlor, where Hart pointedly closed the doors. The others began to fade up the stairs or outside, Beth taking Ian’s arm and walking him out the front.

  Only Daniel remained, stubbornly, by the foot of the stairs. “Don’t say anything stupid, Dad.”

  “Daniel,” Cameron said.

  “Stay all you like, Danny.” Ainsley removed her hat and tossed it to a table, then fished inside her valise and removed some papers. “I do apologize, Cameron, for taking so long to come home. But Lord Pierson is a bloody stubborn man. He took some convincing. Patrick did remarkably well, I thought. He ought to have gone on the stage.”

  Cameron unfolded his arms, finding it difficult to focus on anything but Ainsley’s smile. “Pierson?”

  “Angelo floated Patrick and me down to Bath, where Patrick visited Lord Pierson and convinced him to sell Jasmine. To sell her to Patrick, I mean. I stayed in the canal boat, so that Lord Pierson wouldn’t see me and recognize me, and Patrick did everything. He was quite wonderful. Do you know that canal boats can glide as smoothly as silk? I found it very relaxing. Although, Angelo’s nieces and nephews know how make the boat rock so it will slosh about in the water. They taught me.”

  “Ainsley.” Cameron cut through the heady flow of her chatter. “Are you telling me that you . . . convinced Pierson . . . to sell you Jasmine?”

  “Patrick did. I gave Patrick the money, and he pretended to be a rich businessman interested in horses. Patrick almost fainted when I told him how much to offer for Jasmine, but I was firm. Patrick told Lord Pierson that he was new to racing, which is true, and that he’d heard that Lord Pierson might have a horse for sale, also true. Lord Pierson almost licked Patrick’s shoes, he told me. Lord Pierson showed him Jasmine, and Patrick took a shine to her. Again, true, because Patrick agrees that she is a wonderful horse. Jasmine perked right up when she saw me when Patrick brought her down to the canal. I think she knew that she was on her way home. To her real home, I mean. Here.”

  Ainsley looked so damned pleased with herself, and Cameron could only look at her and bathe in her smile.

  Daniel laughed. “And Pierson fell for it?”

  “Lord Pierson was happy to sell Jasmine to Patrick McBride, the rather naïve businessman.” Ainsley approached Cameron, the bundle of papers in her hand. “The next morning, Patrick McBride sold Night-Blooming Jasmine to me—for one pound sterling. We had it legally drawn up and everything.” She pressed the papers to Cameron’s chest. “And, now, my Lord Cameron, I give her to you.”

  Cameron stared at the pale ivory sheets against his coat. “Why?”

  “Because you want her so much,” Ainsley said.

  Cameron was so stunned he could barely breathe. He wanted to reach for her and pull her to him, to crush her to his body and never let her go.

  He couldn’t move.

  A crunch of wheels outside interrupted, and Cameron heard a familiar piercing whinny. Ainsley whirled from him in excitement. “She’s here.”

  Cameron grabbed Ainsley’s hand. She couldn’t go. Not now. Not yet.

  Daniel laughed and raced outside, calling to Angelo as he went.

  Cameron tugged Ainsley back to him, relaxing as she came. She was home, with him, where she belonged. His world took on color again.

  “You can’t be angry at me for buying Jasmine.” Ainsley’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I can always send her back, you know.”

  “I’m not angry with you, devil woman. I’m madly in love with you.”

  Ainsley looked startled, then her smile blossomed. “Are you? That’s splendid, because I love you too, Cameron Mackenzie.”

  The words went straight to his heart.

  The papers fell, unheeded, to the floor as Cameron kissed her. He needed the taste of her, needed it every day of his life. Ainsley’s lips were hot, her mouth wonderful. She slid her hands down his back, working under his coat to cup him in his tight riding breeches.

  “Vixen,” Cameron said against her mouth.

  “The others are giving us a moment alone. We may as well take advantage of it.”

  “No.” Cameron’s voice went savage. “I want you for far more than a moment. I want to take you slowly, for a long time, in a place where no one will interrupt us.”

  “We’d better try your bedroom, then. That door has a stout lock, and as far as I know, I’m the only one who knows how to pick it.”

  Before she finished, Cameron had her in his arms, carrying her up the stairs. He wanted to hurry, but he couldn’t resist stopping on the landing to kiss her, nibble her neck, nip at her lips.

  When the bedroom door slammed behind them, Cameron set Ainsley on her feet and began stripping off her clothes.

  “Never go away again,” he said. “Whenever you leave this house, I go with you. I can’t stand to be away from you. Understand?”

  He peeled away her layers—pelisse and bodice, skirt and petticoat, bustle and corset, combinations and stockings. Ainsley’s beautiful body came into view, dusky nipples tight, the brush of gold hair between her thighs sweetly damp. She was so beautiful that Cameron ached with it.

  “I shouldn’t travel very far anyway,” Ainsley said as Cameron wrenched off his own clothes, his nude wife looking so demure. “I shall grow quite stout soon, but I can look upon it as an excuse to eat as much cake as I please.”

  Cameron flung off his shirt and stripped out of his underwear. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Daniel’s little brother or sister. I wasn’t certain before I left, so I didn’t want to mention it, but I became much more certain during my visit to the queen. Her doctor confirmed it.”

  Cameron stopped. Ainsley smiled that secret smile, her cheeks flushed, while she stood before him stark naked. Lovely, impossible Ainsley.

  “Don’t look so shocked, my husband. It was inevitable, the way we carry on. I am only surprised it didn’t happen sooner, but there’s no predicting these things.”

  “Our child.” Cameron’s voice became an awed whisper. His dark world whirled around him one last time then dissolved into sunshine. “Our child.”

  “Certainly.” Ainsley’s smile faded, but the love in her eyes did not. “I am ecstatically happy, and honored, to carry her—or him.”

  Cameron read worry in her face, fear that hadn’t quite faded from the death of her first baby. He cupped her face in his hands.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he said. “You can be certain of that. You’ll not have to fear.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Damn you, Ainsley, I love you so much I hurt with it. I fell in love with you the night I first caught you in my bedchamber, my little thief. I was so drunk, and you were so lovely, and I wanted you like I’d never wanted a woman before in my life. How the hell did I live so long without you?”

  “About as well as I lived without
you.” Ainsley touched his face. “Let’s never live without each other again, all right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to say.” Cameron straightened from her. “Bed. Now.”

  Her brows rose. “My, aren’t you commanding?”

  “I am about this. March.” He slapped his hand to her backside and half shoved, half walked her to the bed, Ainsley laughing all the way.

  While he laid her down, he growled those naughty things that she loved to hear. Ainsley kissed him, and Cameron slid into her, completing their joining, completing himself.

  He loved her until they were panting, sweating, shouting their joy. Cameron held her hard through it all, and still held her as they wound down to exhaustion.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, Cam.” Ainsley’s voice was soft, tender. He believed her.

  Cameron snuggled down beside her, pulling the covers over their nakedness, knowing that he could drift to sleep in complete safety and solace. He knew that he’d wake again in the peace she’d taught him, no more blackness, no more grief.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for giving me back my life.”

  “There will be much more of that, my Cam.” Ainsley touched his cheek, breathed her cinnamon-scented breath on him. “Years upon years of it.”

  He intended there to be.

  Cameron started to whisper that tender thought when he jumped, feeling a very determined hand close around his still-hard cock.

  “Devil,” he growled.

  Ainsley laughed, her mirth ringing to the ceiling as Cameron rolled her into the featherbed and loved her all over again.

  Epilogue

  ASCOT, JUNE 1883

  Hooves pounded on the track, mud flying, jockeys bent over brown and black and gray backs.

  Ainsley whooped and flung her fists in the air as Night- Blooming Jasmine pulled ahead in the last furlong and romped home well ahead of the pack.

  The Mackenzie box went insane. Daniel stood on top of the rail and screamed; Beth, Isabella, and Mac cheered at the tops of their voices.

  The well-bred crowd in other boxes looked at them askance, and Ainsley hoped that Lord Pierson was among them. His own fault. The man did not understand horses.

  Hart added his voice to the cheer. “Eat that, Pierson.”

  Mac laughed at him. “You must not need his vote.”

  “Shut it, Mac,” Hart said.

  Ian didn’t join in with the cheering, but he pressed his fists into the rail in front of him and watched as Jasmine pranced about, proud of her victory. Beth planted a happy kiss on Ian’s cheek, and Ian smiled down at her, far more interested in Beth than the horses.

  Only Cameron had not said a word or done a thing. He simply watched, unsurprised, as the horse he’d lavished attention on all spring performed exactly as he expected.

  Daniel jumped down from the rail. “I’ve just won a bundle. That will teach the bookmakers to do odds against on Dad’s horses.”

  “They knew about Jasmine’s past,” Ainsley said. “They must not have believed Cameron could turn her around. More fool they.”

  Cameron held out his arm to Ainsley. “Time to go down.”

  “Before you do,” Hart said, “I have something to say.”

  Cameron paused, not really interested, but Mac seemed to catch something in Hart’s tone. “What?” he asked sharply.

  “Nothing disastrous,” Hart said. “But now that I have you lot married off, I’m contemplating taking a wife.”

  The silence was instant, stunned, and heavy. Ian looked at Hart and kept looking at him, straight into Hart’s eyes.

  And then everyone started talking at once. “Do you mean Eleanor?” Ainsley asked over the clamor.

  Hart broke his gaze from Ian’s and flicked it to Ainsley. “I’ve not said I’ve chosen a possibility.”

  “Yes, he has,” Daniel shouted. “He just don’t want to say, in case she turns him down again.”

  “Cameron,” Hart said. “Cuff your son.”

  “Why?” Cameron shrugged. “Danny’s right. Sort it out yourself, Hart, my horse is waiting. Come on, Daniel. This is your victory too.”

  Daniel took Ainsley’s arm on her the other side, and sandwiched between father and son, Ainsley exited the box.

  “What do you think, Step-mama?” Daniel asked. “A tanner on Lady Eleanor? For or against? I say she gives him the boot.”

  “No, indeed, Danny, my boy,” Ainsley said. “Twenty says she accepts.”

  “Done. Dad?”

  Cameron shook his head. “I never bet on Mackenzies. Way too risky, and Hart can be underhanded.”

  “Still, I think Eleanor will win, no matter what,” Ainsley said. “Now, let’s go see Jasmine.”

  Daniel dropped Ainsley’s arm and ran ahead, bounding down the stairs. Behind them, the remaining Mackenzies continued their noise, also flinging about wagers on Hart’s intended. Ian’s voice rose above them all. “Thirty on Eleanor,” he said. “She’ll say yes.”

  Ainsley laughed. “Poor Hart.”

  “His own fault. He dropped the news on purpose when everyone was excited about Jasmine. He meant for us to treat it in fun, not something deadly serious. But Hart’s deadly serious.”

  Ainsley knew he was. “I’m tempted to warn Eleanor,” she said. “But no, they need to work it out for themselves.”

  “As we have.”

  “Hmm.” Ainsley looked at her broad-shouldered, handsome husband, in black coat and Mackenzie kilt, and craved him with a bright suddenness.

  “Cam,” she said. “They’ll wait for us in the paddock, won’t they?”

  “Probably. Unless Danny grabs the trophy.”

  “Good.” Ainsley side-stepped and tugged Cameron with her under the shadow of the grandstand.

  “What is it, vixen?” Cameron asked as they ducked out of sight. “Do you want to tell me a secret?”

  “Ask you a question, rather.” Ainsley touched the top button of her placket. “How many buttons can you open, my lord, before we have to go and rescue the trophy?”

  His eyes darkened. “Little devil.”

  Ainsley laughed as Cameron swept her against him, mouth hard on hers, while his agile fingers began to unbutton her dress.

  Turn the page for a preview of the next historical romance by Jennifer Ashley

  The Duke’s Perfect Wife

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  Hart Mackenzie.

  It was said that he knew every pleasure a woman desired and exactly how to give it to her. Hart wouldn’t ask what the lady wanted, and she might not even know herself, but she would understand once he’d finished. And she’d want it again.

  He had power, wealth, skill, intelligence, and the ability to play upon his fellow man to make them do what he wanted and believe it their own idea.

  Eleanor Ramsay knew, firsthand, that all of this was true.

  She lurked among a flock of journalists in St. James’s Street who waited for the Scottish duke to emerge from his club. In her unfashionable gown and old hat, she looked like a lady scribbler as hungry for a story as the rest of them.

  The men came to life when they spied the tall duke on the threshold, distinctive with his close-cropped, red- highlighted hair and ever-present Mackenzie kilt. Hart always wore a kilt while in London, to remind everyone who set eyes on him that he was Scottish first.

  “Your Grace!” the men shouted. “Your Grace!”

  They surged forward, a sea of black backs, male strength shutting out Eleanor. A lady was a lady, but not when it came to newspaper stories about the elusive Duke of Kilmorgan.

  Eleanor used her folded parasol to push her way through, earning herself curses and glares. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said as her bustle shoved aside a man who’d tried to elbow her in the ribs.

  Hart barely glanced at them with his sharp golden eyes as he waited for his carriage to approach. He’d cut his hair shorter, Eleanor noticed, which made his face
appear squarer and harder than ever. She knew she was the only one among this crowd that had ever seen that face soften in sleep.

  The duke looked neither left nor right as he pulled on his hat and prepared to walk the three steps between the club and the open door of his carriage.

  “Your Grace,” one journalist shouted above the rest. “If you love Scotland so much, why are you here in London?”

  Hart didn’t answer. He was a master of letting what he didn’t want to acknowledge flow past him.

  Eleanor cupped her hands around her mouth. “Your Grace!”

  Her voice rose above the masculine cries, and Hart turned. His gaze met hers and locked.

  When they’d been in love, years ago, Hart and Eleanor at times had been able to communicate without words. Eleanor never knew how they did it, but somehow they’d been able to exchange a glance and understand what the other wanted. At this moment, Hart wanted Eleanor in his carriage, and Eleanor wanted that too.

  Hart made a curt signal to one of the pugilist-looking footmen that followed him everywhere these days. The footman shouldered his way into the sea of rumpled suits, parting the pack of journalists like Moses at the Red Sea.

  “Your ladyship,” the pugilist said, and he gestured for her to precede him back through the crowd.

  A second pugilist footman stood like a rock at the carriage door, anchoring the way. Hart watched Eleanor come, eyes on her all the way. When she reached him, he stepped in front of his footman, caught Eleanor by the elbows, and boosted her up and into the open carriage.

  Eleanor’s breath went out of her at his touch. But it didn’t last long, and she landed on the seat as Hart followed her in. He took the seat opposite, thank heavens, and the second footman slammed the door.

  She grabbed at her hat as the carriage jerked forward, trying to keep her grip on her parasol and the seat at the same time. Hart sat across from her, neat and tidy, his hat firmly on his head. She resisted the urge to reach over and knock it off.

  The gentlemen of the press shouted and swore as their prey got away, the carriage heading up St. James’s Street toward Mayfair. Eleanor looked back at them over the carriage’s open top.