“I’m so sorry,” Ainsley said, her heart in her words.
Cameron only looked at her. His amused tolerance and the camaraderie of the search had vanished.
Without a word, he strode to the hearth, where a fire burned against the cold September night, and tossed the letter onto the flames. Ainsley hurried to him as Cameron seized the poker and jabbed the paper deep into the coals.
“Why did you do that? Your wife’s letter . . .”
Cameron dropped the poker. His hand was black with soot, and he drew out a handkerchief to wipe it. “My wife didn’t write it.” His voice was harsh. “It was a letter to her, from one of her lovers. Expressing his undying passion.”
Ainsley stopped, stricken. “Cameron . . .”
“My wife had many lovers, both before and after our marriage.” The statement was flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes told Ainsley a different story. Lady Elizabeth had hurt him, and hurt him deeply.
From all Ainsley had heard about Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, she’d been high-strung, beautiful, and wild, a few years older than Cameron. Their marriage had been a scandal from beginning to end, finishing with her death six months after Daniel was born. Lady Elizabeth must have stood often in this very room, perhaps one day hiding the letter before Cameron or a servant came upon her.
Ainsley’s anger surged. “Not very sporting of her.”
“I carry on with married women. What is the difference?”
The difference was he didn’t enjoy it, and he despised the women he carried on with. “I imagine you don’t write those women letters expressing your undying passion.”
“No.”
Cameron rubbed his wrist, where his shirt had loosened. Ainsley saw the scars again, round and even.
“Who did that to you?” she asked.
Cameron slammed the cuff closed. “Leave it alone.”
“Why?”
“Ainsley.” The word was stark, holding rivers of pain.
“My lord?”
“Stop.” Cameron cupped her head in his hands, his fingers spreading her hair. “Just . . . stop.” He leaned to her and took her mouth in a kiss of harsh desperation.
Chapter 8
Cameron didn’t simply kiss her. He opened her mouth with his strong one, took what he wanted, made Ainsley kiss him back. Made her like kissing him back, made her want more.
His hands kept her pinned in place, but Ainsley didn’t want to go anywhere. His thighs flattened her skirts, the ridge of his hardness obvious and unashamed. Cameron knew how to make his mouth an instrument of sensuality, and he didn’t bother to hide his wanting.
Ainsley curled her hands against his chest. Beneath the linen of his shirt was warm, living male, his heart beating as rapidly as hers.
Cameron slid his hand to the top of her bodice. “You have no buttons tonight, Mrs. Douglas.”
“Clasps,” she murmured as she kissed him. “In the back.”
Cameron splayed his hand over the placket, fingers so strong that he could rip open every single clasp without thought. He kept his hand there, rock steady as he again swept his mouth across hers.
Ainsley couldn’t breathe. Cameron tasted her to every corner, his mouth firm and bold, his a lover’s kiss. No stolen moments in a corner, no cooing of lovebirds, just a man bent on bodily pleasure, damn what anyone thought. He licked across her mouth, hungry, feasting on Ainsley. She wound her arms around his neck and feasted back.
Cameron raised his head. “If I asked it of you tonight, Ainsley Douglas, would come to my bed?”
The words of Phyllida Chase came back to her. Lord Cameron doesn’t take his women in a bed . . . Quite known for it, is our Lord Cameron.
“I thought you didn’t like beds.”
She felt him jerk, saw his eyes flicker. “True.” His voice changed, from soft cajoling to hard edged.
Ainsley’s own voice shook. “I should think a bed would be more comfortable.”
“Comfort is the last consideration, Mrs. Douglas.”
The tingling became hot waves of excitement. He was right: a bed was sedate, a place for a well-acquainted husband and wife who pulled on nightcaps afterward and rolled to either side to sleep. Lovers would use a chair, say, or a thick carpet in front of the fire. Or perhaps Cameron wished to learn what could be done on the top of a desk.
Words stuck in her throat. Ainsley, who could talk her way into or out of anything, suddenly couldn’t form a sentence.
She raised on tiptoe and kissed him instead.
Ainsley felt the change in him, from a man wondering what would happen in this room tonight to a man knowing what would. As he kissed her again, his competent fingers unclasped her bodice, his broad hand spreading the fabric.
Wild heat seared her body. She’d never forgotten the fire of the first time Cameron had kissed her, six years ago, and the fire had only grown hotter since. Ainsley molded hungrily to him, seeking his mouth. He kissed her back, lips taking, teeth scraping where he’d already bruised her. His hand on her back was an imprint of fire, and her bodice was falling. She wanted his touch on her breast, ached for it. She would give him anything she wanted, and propriety could go hang. She wanted this. She needed this. She arched to him, seeking.
Cameron’s whole body suddenly stilled. His kiss died on her mouth, and his hand froze on her back.
Ainsley, still swimming in dark madness, couldn’t decide what had happened. Then she felt a cool draft on her back, heard the click of paws on bare floor, and realized that someone had opened the door.
“Daniel,” Cameron said, voice hard. “Turn around and go out.”
“Fat chance.” Daniel Mackenzie blazed into the room, followed by McNab and the hound called Ruby. Both dogs circled Daniel, scattering the papers Ainsley had so carefully sorted. “I’ve come to save Mrs. Douglas’s virtue,” Daniel said. “Aunt Isabella’s looking for her, and I thought I’d better come up before she did.”
The frank expression of the boy who looked at Ainsley with his father’s eyes returned her to reality with a rush.
She’d been about to succumb to Cameron’s seductions—again. But Ainsley Douglas couldn’t afford to indulge in that joy. She wasn’t a sophisticated lady, lover to aristocrats, one who gadded off to the Continent to host salons in Paris and be wooed by wild gentlemen like Lord Cameron. Ainsley was a glorified errand-runner, trusted by the queen to solve domestic dilemmas, asked by her highborn friends to help with their social events. Dependent on others for her living. Exotic men like Lord Cameron Mackenzie were not for Ainsley. That dream was dust.
Cameron removed his hand from Ainsley’s back, straightened to his full height, and stepped a little in front of her.
“Daniel.” His voice held frustration, but at the same time, Ainsley knew Cameron was keeping a rock-hard rein on his patience. “Wait for Mrs. Douglas in the hall.”
Daniel grabbed a newspaper from the top of the stack and plopped himself into a chair. His kilt fluttered around his bony knees. “She’s a lady, Dad, I told ya. I’m not taking the chance that you’ll ravish her as soon as my back is turned.”
The absurdity of it all brought Ainsley back to herself. She stepped out from behind Cameron and rescued her lace shawl from Ruby’s questing mouth.
“Not to worry, Daniel, I wouldn’t dream of letting him ravish me.” Ainsley pulled the shawl, now a bit damp with drool, around her bare back. “Tell Isabella I’ll be with her directly.”
Daniel threw down the newspaper and sprang to his feet. “I’ll walk with ye.”
Ainsley looked back as she left the room behind Daniel. Cameron remained by the fireplace, stance rigid, his shirt open to reveal his brown throat. For the first time, Ainsley saw something naked in his eyes, not anger or frustration or old pain, but a longing so intense it stabbed at her from across the room.