He knew he should be finished with her, having at last obtained what he’d wanted since that night six years ago in this very bedchamber. Challenge completed, the game won. He should at least be finished for the night, sated and sleepy, ready to make plans for the morning’s training. But he paced and wanted Ainsley again. Not just tonight but night after night.
He’d convince her to come to Paris with him. She had nothing to look forward to—more drudgery to the queen and duty to her brother and sister-in-law, hidden away until she became faded and forgotten.
Ainsley was too vibrant to be forgotten. Cameron would take her to Paris then Monaco. He’d dress her in the most costly gowns, give her jewels that would make every other woman on the Continent ill with envy. He’d take her to the finest restaurants and best theatres and let her enjoy herself. Then they’d retreat to the townhouse he leased in the best district and watch the city lights.
Ainsley was a delight to be with—she threw herself wholeheartedly into whatever she did, whether it was helping Isabella organize guests for Hart or fetching compromising letters for the Queen of England.
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.