“Wild? Me?” She contrived to look innocent.
“I work with horses all day, every day. I know which ones are happy to plod along and which ones are bursting to throw off their fetters and run free.”
“Like Jasmine.”
“Exactly like Jasmine. I look at you and see fire, love. You hide it behind drab clothes, and you pretend to be so dutiful, but that fire wants to burst out of you. You’re a woman of passion, wanting to run.” Cameron’s voice softened but was still rough, still deep. “Why not let yourself run?”
“No one wants me to,” she said. “No one but you.”
Cameron closed both hands over hers. “Reconsider my offer, Ainsley. Come to Paris with me. I’ll take you to Nice, to Monte Carlo, to Rome if you want. I’ll dress you in beautiful clothes and put you in a carriage behind the finest horses, and you’ll eclipse everyone we see.”
Ainsley couldn’t stop her happy sigh. “Wouldn’t that be grand? Me a sophisticated and glittering lady.”
“Say you’ll come with me.” His smile was sudden and wicked. “Say you will or I’ll have my coachman stop, and I’ll put you out into a Scottish meadow in your combinations.”
“As though such a thing would frighten me, my lord. I’d fly home through woods and dance lightly across bogs, unhampered by my confounded corset and false panniers.”
Cameron’s laughter filled the carriage. “Ainsley, you have to come with me. Say you will. Promise me.”
She touched his face. “Cameron.”
“Damn you, don’t say no.”
Ainsley started to speak, but Cameron put his hand to her lips. “Not now. Don’t refuse me now. Think about it. Be on the train from Doncaster to London after the last St. Leger race—I leave from there for the Continent. If you want to go with me, tell me then. Now, stop talking, woman, and let me ravish you.”
Chapter 14
He was going to have her, touch her, taste her. Everything he could of her.
Tonight if no other time. He’d do everything he could to persuade her to come away with him, but right now, he was going to enjoy this.
He undid the pretty bow that tied the top of her combinations and slid the lacy fabric from her shoulders. Her br**sts came into view, round globes, firm and tight. Not the small br**sts of a virgin, but the wonderfully full ones of a woman who’d grown into her body.
Ainsley was as beautiful as Cameron had dreamed. He cupped one breast reverently before he leaned forward and licked it.
He tasted fire, felt her heart beating swiftly. Cameron nuzzled her skin, flicked his tongue to the taut peak of her nipple. She gasped. Cameron touched his tongue to her again, and again, the gasp. Delightful.
“Has no man ever tasted you, Ainsley?”
“No.” The word was breathless. “Not like that.”
“Fools. You taste good.” Cameron licked a circle around the areola. “You’re like the best wine, Ainsley, lass.”
He suckled her gently, then drew one nipple between his teeth. She reclined on the cushioned seat, eyes half closed, br**sts bare in the lamplight, legs spread for him. He hadn’t seen so beautiful a sight in a very long time.
Cameron kissed between her br**sts, moving his way downward. Her belly was a little soft, a little round, despite the constant cinch of her corset. There were scars here, pink lines on her skin, signs that her abdomen had once been much fuller than this.
He flicked his gaze to her face, and Ainsley stilled. She knew he’d seen and that he understood what he’d seen.
Isabella had never mentioned that Ainsley had borne a child. Where was that child now?
The sorrow in Ainsley’s eyes told him. The baby had not survived.
It was a common thing, even in this day and age, for a child to die at birth or shortly thereafter. But that didn’t mean every death wasn’t mourned, every grief felt. John Douglas had been elderly; perhaps his seed hadn’t been strong.
Cameron remembered his conversation at breakfast with Isabella, her story that Ainsley had gone to the Continent and returned a year later, married, to Isabella’s surprise. There had been no announcement, not even a letter, simply Ainsley McBride returning as Ainsley Douglas. Interesting.
Not that he’d question her about her secrets right now. They all had them, dark secrets of the soul. The only way to deal with them was to live, and forget.
Cameron feathered kisses along the lines, tracing them with his tongue. He enjoyed himself, tasting her skin, inhaling the salt sweet scent of her. He dipped his tongue into her navel, and she let out a laugh.
She pushed at the open placket of his shirt. “Not fair that I’m the only one undressed. I want to see you.”
“No need.” Cameron could feast his eyes on Ainsley all night. When it came time to finish, he didn’t need to bare his scarred body. He rarely undressed all the way for his ladies.
“There is need. My need.” Ainsley lolled against the cushions, bare, delectable, erotic. “I have hidden nothing from you, my Cam.”
My Cam. Damn her.
My Ainsley.
He could give her some but not all, and the carriage was dark enough. Pressing another kiss to her belly, Cameron knelt back and slid off his shirt.
Ainsley held her breath, her heart beating fast and hard. Her Mackenzie male was large, strong, delectable.
She’d only glimpsed his chest before, and now she saw Cameron in full, a huge man, sculpted with muscle, skin glistening with perspiration. Perfect, except for a thin scar that marred where his collarbone joined his right shoulder. Ainsley traced the scar with her fingers, then leaned forward to kiss it, to lick it.
“Ainsley, you do have fire,” he whispered. “I want to feel that fire all around me.”
Ainsley kissed his scar one more time, lifted her face, and lightly kissed the scar on his cheek.
Cameron’s ensuing kiss was hard, hot, taking. Strong fingers undid the buttons that held her pantalets closed, and the cotton moved down her legs.
Ainsley thought he’d lift her around him there and then, but Cameron pressed her again to the cushions. He parted her legs and bowed over her lap.
And then his mouth. Ainsley jerked as Cameron closed lips and tongue over her most intimate place. Her legs came up, knees bending as her feet rested on the seat. She was open all the way to him, but she felt no shame, only heat and a burning need.
The carriage listed, but Cameron didn’t stop. Ainsley furrowed his hair as he went on, his strokes and pulls harder. She hurt for him, she wanted him, and the friction of his tongue was glorious, glorious. His mouth was hot, tongue skilled and swift, the burn of his whiskers on her thighs wicked.