The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Cameron pulled the pillows away and plumped them behind her. “There, now there’s your comfort.”

He laughed again, the sound of it grating, because Cameron had never had the velvet tones of his brothers. Working in the cold outdoors had broken his baritone long ago.

Ainsley lolled against the old sofa pillows in her white stockings and plain cotton pantalets. Cameron’s laughter died away as he put his hand to her bodice. “How many buttons, Mrs. Douglas?”

“They’re clasps.” Her breath was warm on his face. “I suppose that doesn’t sound as enticing.”

“I didn’t ask you what it sounded like, I asked you how many.”

Ainsley’s mischievous smile flashed. “All of them, I think.”

Cameron was already undoing the clasps until the old- fashioned bodice and stomacher came loose in his hands. Ainsley, being her modest self, wore a small corset under it, and under that, her combinations, its lacy straps on her shoulders.

Cameron ran his hand down the corset. “I want this off too.”

“It would be a relief, yes.”

Ainsley shivered as Cameron spread the corset’s laces, as he had that long-ago day in his bedchamber, his big hand like fire on her back. He lifted the corset away, and there Ainsley sat, in nothing but her combinations, undressed in front of a man for the first time in years.

And what a man. Cameron knelt in front of her, his big body filling so much space. His coat followed her corset and bodice to the seat behind him, then his waistcoat and cravat. He unbuttoned his shirt, and she beheld him as she had the night she’d crept into his room looking for the letters—the brown of well-muscled chest, kilt hugging narrow hips, Cameron folding back his loose cuffs to bare his arms.

The scars on his thick wrist came into view, those burns that someone had given him long ago, pain deliberately inflicted. Ainsley hated whoever had done that. From her brothers, she knew that young men at school sometimes tortured each other, she supposed to prove how masculine they were. But Cameron didn’t seem the type to let bullies shove him down and press lighted cigars to his skin.

Ainsley caught his hand, lifted his wrist, and kissed the burn marks. His skin was smooth, the scars puckered.

He pulled away. “Don’t.”

“I dislike to see you hurt,” she said softly.

Cameron rested his hands on either side of her. “Stop being kind, Ainsley. Not while I’m ravishing you.”

Ainsley smiled. “If you’d like me to be unkind, I certainly can be.”

“I doubt that. What I’d like is for you to wrap your legs around my waist.”

“But I’m still wearing my combinations.”

“I know, devil woman.”

Cameron slid his hands under her thighs, lifted her legs, and eased them around his hips. Ainsley felt him through the fabric of her pantalets, warm wool of the kilt and the hardness beneath it.

“That’s my girl.” His hands were hot on her legs, moving around to her bu**ocks while he rocked against her.

Ainsley felt shivery and hot at the same time, nervous and happy. This was going to happen. She was a wanton courtesan tonight, like her imaginary lady who held salons in Paris and had the most handsome men in France after her. But she didn’t want handsome Parisians, she wanted Cameron, her hard, powerful Scotsman.

“Stop laughing,” he said against her mouth.

Ainsley cupped his cheek. “Not laughing. Wondering how you plan to ravish me in the close confines of this carriage.”

The answering heat in his eyes fired her blood. “I don’t know yet. I’ve never had a lady in this carriage.”

“Never?” Ainsley’s heart beat faster.

“Never until you, vixen.”

“Good.”

Cameron slid one hand through her hair, dislodging pins, letting tendrils tumble to her shoulders.

“I love your hair,” Cameron said. “I’ve always wanted to see it down.”

“A bit difficult to tame, I’ve always found.”

“I don’t want it tame.” Cameron fisted a lock of hair, kissed it. “I want it wild. I want you wild, Ainsley. I know it’s in you.” He put his hand between her br**sts, right over her heart.

“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.”