Ainsley opened her mouth to protest, but Cameron growled. “Can you do nothing without arguing, woman?”

“Not really. I’m not used to following orders without question.”

“The Queen of England must put up with much, then. Turn around.”

Ainsley decided to do that without asking him why, and Cameron laced up her corset. He did it with quick competence, as skilled as any lady’s maid.

Cameron turned her around and kissed her again, this kiss lingering and slow. “You’re a beautiful, beautiful woman, Ainsley Douglas. And I want to drink you down.”

And wouldn’t Ainsley love that? She touched his face. “Soon.”

“Very soon.” Another kiss, and Cameron snatched up his coat and opened the door.

A rush of cold air filled the coach, blocked a little by Cameron’s body as he descended. “Damned soon,” he said.

He flickered his tongue, promising and sensual, and then he slammed the door, and was gone.

Before Ainsley could draw a ragged breath, the coach lurched forward, and she scrambled for her bodice and skirts. Outside she heard Cameron go, his cheerful whistle cutting the night.

Cameron paced his bedchamber, poured himself whiskey, paced some more, and drank, his eye on the clock. McNab lay sprawled on Cameron’s bed, the dog fully at home. McNab thumped his tail the first few times Cameron passed; then his eyes drooped and he began to snore. It was like a rusty saw, that snore.

Cameron drank and walked, his focus nowhere. He had to give Ainsley enough time get herself upstairs, give her maid a chance to fuss as she undressed Ainsley and put her to bed. Another quarter of an hour perhaps. His blood burned with impatience.

Again and again he felt the warmth of Ainsley around him, heard her laughter. Her astonishment when she’d reached climax told him she’d never had an orgasm before. Cameron couldn’t help but smile in triumph to know he’d been the first to make her feel it.

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.