The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
Page 20
Cameron shuddered. “Dear God, never that. I even hate the sound of the word. I suppose landing a horse is similar, but horses aren’t near as much bother as wives.”
The pull of disgust in his voice was true. “I’m certain Isabella would be pleased to hear you say so,” Ainsley said lightly.
“Isabella knows she’s a bother. She delights in it. Just ask Mac.”
Ainsley smiled at his quip, but he hadn’t feigned his opinion of marriage. Ainsley looked away from him and quickly continued through the papers.
She found much evidence that Cameron was a womanizing, erotica-reading, whiskey-drinking, horse-mad gentleman but no letters from the queen. She set aside the last papers, shook out her skirts, and climbed to her feet. Cameron reached to help her, his firm hand under her elbow.
“I’m doubting now that Mrs. Chase hid them here,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll wager they’ve never left her house in Edinburgh, except the one paper she brought to show me. She knew I’d try to ferret them out.”
“Ferret. A good name for you. I thought mouse when I saw you hiding in my window seat, but I can see the resemblance. Your eyes get bright when you’re on the trail of what you want.”
She liked his half smile, the teasing in his eyes. All loathing from his talk of marriage had gone. “How highly flattering you are, my lord. No wonder the ladies like you.”
Cameron pulled out a drawer in the desk she’d already searched. The papers in it had been old, dates on them from fifteen, twenty years ago. Cameron dumped them on the floor—all over the newspapers she’d already straightened—and started prying inside the drawer.
“This one has a false bottom if I remember. Haven’t touched it in a while.”
He tugged fruitlessly at the wood. Ainsley pulled a hairpin from her coiled braid and handed it to him. “Try that.”
“Ah, the tools of your trade.” Cameron took it from her, inserted the end in a slightly gouged corner, and pulled.
The bottom of the drawer came away to reveal a single folded letter, creased from being pressed flat. Ainsley snatched it up and opened it but grunted in disappointment before she read a word. “Wrong handwriting. It’s not hers.”
She handed the paper back to Cameron and turned away.
Ainsley headed for the books on the mantelpiece, but a faint noise behind her made her turn around again. Cameron stood where she’d left him, still as stone, his gaze riveted to the unfolded letter in his hand.
“Lord Cameron?”
He didn’t appear to hear. Cameron stared at the letter, his eyes unmoving, as though he’d taken in what it said and couldn’t quite believe it.
Ainsley went to him. “What is it?”
When she touched his hand, he jerked and looked down at her, his eyes empty.
“It belonged to my wife.”
Oh dear. Ainsley’s own sadness about John Douglas could be triggered whenever she came unexpectedly across something that had belonged to him. Though Cameron had been widowed a long time now, his pain must have been intensified by Lady Elizabeth’s violent death and people’s morbid suspicions about it.
“I’m so sorry,” Ainsley said, her heart in her words.
Cameron only looked at her. His amused tolerance and the camaraderie of the search had vanished.
Without a word, he strode to the hearth, where a fire burned against the cold September night, and tossed the letter onto the flames. Ainsley hurried to him as Cameron seized the poker and jabbed the paper deep into the coals.
“Why did you do that? Your wife’s letter . . .”
Cameron dropped the poker. His hand was black with soot, and he drew out a handkerchief to wipe it. “My wife didn’t write it.” His voice was harsh. “It was a letter to her, from one of her lovers. Expressing his undying passion.”
Ainsley stopped, stricken. “Cameron . . .”
“My wife had many lovers, both before and after our marriage.” The statement was flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes told Ainsley a different story. Lady Elizabeth had hurt him, and hurt him deeply.
From all Ainsley had heard about Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, she’d been high-strung, beautiful, and wild, a few years older than Cameron. Their marriage had been a scandal from beginning to end, finishing with her death six months after Daniel was born. Lady Elizabeth must have stood often in this very room, perhaps one day hiding the letter before Cameron or a servant came upon her.
Ainsley’s anger surged. “Not very sporting of her.”
“I carry on with married women. What is the difference?”
The difference was he didn’t enjoy it, and he despised the women he carried on with. “I imagine you don’t write those women letters expressing your undying passion.”
“No.”
Cameron rubbed his wrist, where his shirt had loosened. Ainsley saw the scars again, round and even.
“Who did that to you?” she asked.
Cameron slammed the cuff closed. “Leave it alone.”
“Why?”
“Ainsley.” The word was stark, holding rivers of pain.
“My lord?”
“Stop.” Cameron cupped her head in his hands, his fingers spreading her hair. “Just . . . stop.” He leaned to her and took her mouth in a kiss of harsh desperation.
Chapter 8
Cameron didn’t simply kiss her. He opened her mouth with his strong one, took what he wanted, made Ainsley kiss him back. Made her like kissing him back, made her want more.
The pull of disgust in his voice was true. “I’m certain Isabella would be pleased to hear you say so,” Ainsley said lightly.
“Isabella knows she’s a bother. She delights in it. Just ask Mac.”
Ainsley smiled at his quip, but he hadn’t feigned his opinion of marriage. Ainsley looked away from him and quickly continued through the papers.
She found much evidence that Cameron was a womanizing, erotica-reading, whiskey-drinking, horse-mad gentleman but no letters from the queen. She set aside the last papers, shook out her skirts, and climbed to her feet. Cameron reached to help her, his firm hand under her elbow.
“I’m doubting now that Mrs. Chase hid them here,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll wager they’ve never left her house in Edinburgh, except the one paper she brought to show me. She knew I’d try to ferret them out.”
“Ferret. A good name for you. I thought mouse when I saw you hiding in my window seat, but I can see the resemblance. Your eyes get bright when you’re on the trail of what you want.”
She liked his half smile, the teasing in his eyes. All loathing from his talk of marriage had gone. “How highly flattering you are, my lord. No wonder the ladies like you.”
Cameron pulled out a drawer in the desk she’d already searched. The papers in it had been old, dates on them from fifteen, twenty years ago. Cameron dumped them on the floor—all over the newspapers she’d already straightened—and started prying inside the drawer.
“This one has a false bottom if I remember. Haven’t touched it in a while.”
He tugged fruitlessly at the wood. Ainsley pulled a hairpin from her coiled braid and handed it to him. “Try that.”
“Ah, the tools of your trade.” Cameron took it from her, inserted the end in a slightly gouged corner, and pulled.
The bottom of the drawer came away to reveal a single folded letter, creased from being pressed flat. Ainsley snatched it up and opened it but grunted in disappointment before she read a word. “Wrong handwriting. It’s not hers.”
She handed the paper back to Cameron and turned away.
Ainsley headed for the books on the mantelpiece, but a faint noise behind her made her turn around again. Cameron stood where she’d left him, still as stone, his gaze riveted to the unfolded letter in his hand.
“Lord Cameron?”
He didn’t appear to hear. Cameron stared at the letter, his eyes unmoving, as though he’d taken in what it said and couldn’t quite believe it.
Ainsley went to him. “What is it?”
When she touched his hand, he jerked and looked down at her, his eyes empty.
“It belonged to my wife.”
Oh dear. Ainsley’s own sadness about John Douglas could be triggered whenever she came unexpectedly across something that had belonged to him. Though Cameron had been widowed a long time now, his pain must have been intensified by Lady Elizabeth’s violent death and people’s morbid suspicions about it.
“I’m so sorry,” Ainsley said, her heart in her words.
Cameron only looked at her. His amused tolerance and the camaraderie of the search had vanished.
Without a word, he strode to the hearth, where a fire burned against the cold September night, and tossed the letter onto the flames. Ainsley hurried to him as Cameron seized the poker and jabbed the paper deep into the coals.
“Why did you do that? Your wife’s letter . . .”
Cameron dropped the poker. His hand was black with soot, and he drew out a handkerchief to wipe it. “My wife didn’t write it.” His voice was harsh. “It was a letter to her, from one of her lovers. Expressing his undying passion.”
Ainsley stopped, stricken. “Cameron . . .”
“My wife had many lovers, both before and after our marriage.” The statement was flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes told Ainsley a different story. Lady Elizabeth had hurt him, and hurt him deeply.
From all Ainsley had heard about Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, she’d been high-strung, beautiful, and wild, a few years older than Cameron. Their marriage had been a scandal from beginning to end, finishing with her death six months after Daniel was born. Lady Elizabeth must have stood often in this very room, perhaps one day hiding the letter before Cameron or a servant came upon her.
Ainsley’s anger surged. “Not very sporting of her.”
“I carry on with married women. What is the difference?”
The difference was he didn’t enjoy it, and he despised the women he carried on with. “I imagine you don’t write those women letters expressing your undying passion.”
“No.”
Cameron rubbed his wrist, where his shirt had loosened. Ainsley saw the scars again, round and even.
“Who did that to you?” she asked.
Cameron slammed the cuff closed. “Leave it alone.”
“Why?”
“Ainsley.” The word was stark, holding rivers of pain.
“My lord?”
“Stop.” Cameron cupped her head in his hands, his fingers spreading her hair. “Just . . . stop.” He leaned to her and took her mouth in a kiss of harsh desperation.
Chapter 8
Cameron didn’t simply kiss her. He opened her mouth with his strong one, took what he wanted, made Ainsley kiss him back. Made her like kissing him back, made her want more.
