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 inn
ocent 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.”
Chapter 16
Cameron stared at Beth while the color drained from his world. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“Back to Balmoral. She had a telegram from the queen this morning.” Her voice softened. “I’m sorry, Cam. You didn’t know?”
“No, I bloody well didn’t know.” No good-bye, no bothering to send him a message.
“She didn’t even have time to pack,” Beth said, tugging off her gloves. “She took a few things with her and asked me to send everything else on.”
“And you let her go?” Cameron’s voice thundered.
Beth’s dark blue gaze burrowed past his anger. “It was a summons from the queen. She couldn’t refuse.” She hesitated. “Do you remember when you taught me how to ride a horse?”
“What the devil does that have to do with anything?” The world had dropped from under Cameron’s feet, and he was falling, falling.
“You were so patient with me, even though I was completely ignorant about horses. You found me a horse that would be gentle and easy to ride, and you went slowly. I learned to trust that you wouldn’t let me fall. And not only because Ian would throttle you if you did.”
“I remember.”
“Then trust me when I say that you will see Ainsley again. And everything will be as it should be.”
Beth looked wise, but this was wrong, all wrong. “Did she leave any message for me?”
“No.” Beth looked apologetic. “She barely had time to say good-bye to Isabella and ask me to kiss the babies for her.”
No good-bye for Cameron, no answer to his pathetic plea. Ainsley, you have to come with me. Say you will. Promise me.
“Damnation.”
Beth touched his arm. “Cameron, I am so sorry.”
Cameron looked down at Beth, the kind but resilient sister-in-law who’d made Ian so happy. He started to answer but just then his jumbled thoughts clarified into a single one.
The letters.
The exasperating Ainsley would never have rushed off to Balmoral without the letters. If Angelo had given them to her . . . Cameron should have remembered that she’d already swayed Angelo to her side.
Without another word, Cameron strode to his wing of the house, took the stairs two at a time, and stormed into his bedchamber. Everything looked as Cam had left it the night before, including the dog-haired impression McNab had left on the bed. The dog in question now padded back into the room.
Cameron slammed across the room to his bedside table. A painting of a cheerful tart hung above it, she sitting on the edge of her bed in her chemise, grinning while she pulled on her stockings. Mac had painted the picture for him a long time ago. Though Cameron had never met the model Mac had used, he liked the way the woman’s cheeky smile beamed at him every morning.
She laughed at him now as Cameron yanked open the drawer. Cameron had locked the drawer, but the little lock was no match for Ainsley’s skill.
The stack of letters had gone.
“Damn it,” Cameron said. McNab sat down next to him. “Bloody rotten guard dog you are.”
McNab thumped his tail.
Cameron drew out a scrap of paper from the drawer that hadn’t been there the night before. Unfolding it, he found Ainsley’s clear handwriting.
On the train, after the St. Leger. I will give you my answer.
She hadn’t signed it.
“Dad!” The outraged cry had McNab’s tail going faster. Cameron slid the note into his pocket.
“Dad!”
“I heard you the first time.” Cameron shoved the drawer closed and faced his son, who’d been running, his kilt dirty as usual.
“Dad, Mrs. Douglas is gone.”
“I know that.”
“Well, go after her. Bring her back!”
Cameron glared, and Daniel took a worried step back. Cameron checked his rage, not liking the frustrated violence boiling up inside him.
“She went to the queen,” he said as calmly as he could. “She had to go.”
“Why? What does the bloody queen need with her anyway? She’s got enough people to look after her without Ainsley.”