The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
Page 50

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 innocent 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.