The Many Sins Of Lord Cameron (MacKenzies & McBrides #3)(12)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Cameron’s thoughts slid back, as they had done all day, to Ainsley in the woods, her skin flushing as he undid the tenth button of her bodice. He’d pulled open the placket, and hadn’t the package inside been sweet?

Beautiful Ainsley spilling over her corset, br**sts full and lush. He’d wanted to lick all the way down her cle**age, unlace the corset to bare her ni**les, catch a velvet areola in his teeth. He’d been too damn hard to return to the game—he’d had to walk around in the mud a long time before making his way back to Mrs. Yardley to finish the match with her. It must have been the longest bloody game of croquet in the history of the world.

“She’s not for you, lad,” Cameron repeated with difficulty. “You leave her be.”

“Why? Are ye interested in her yourself?”

Hell, yes. “She’s not my sort of woman, Danny.”

Daniel clenched large-boned hands he was still growing into. “I know that. That’s why I like her. Because she’s nothing like your women, nothing at all. So she’ll be safe from the likes of you.” He snarled the last word, turned, and loped off into the darkness.

“Daniel . . .”

Daniel didn’t stop or turn back, disappearing at a run, off to who knew where.

Being a father was absolute hell. Cameron swung around again and found his view blocked by his youngest brother, Ian.

Cam was a little surprised to see that Ian had come outside—Ian hated crowds, was unnerved out of all proportion to them. However, it was dark, most of the guests avoided him anyway, and his wife, Beth, stood not many feet from him.

Ian was an inch or so shorter than Cameron, but just as broad of shoulder. His stance held a new strength, much of which was due to the young woman standing behind him chatting to one of the guests.

“Ian, what the devil was I supposed to remember to do with Daniel this afternoon?” Cameron asked him.

Ian glanced to where Daniel had gone. Ian would never give Cam placating phrases that others might—He admires you, Cameron; he’s just trying to please you. Ian took things as they were and understood the truth. He knew that Daniel’s frustration with Cameron was about equal to Cameron’s frustration with Daniel.

“Ride the bounds with him,” Ian said.

“Damn it.” Daniel loved to ride the perimeter of Mackenzie lands, which led through deep woods to craggy gorges. Cameron was usually too busy with his horses, but he’d assured Daniel they’d do it today. “Take some advice, Ian. Don’t look to me as a model for fatherhood. Watch what I do and then do the exact opposite.”

Cameron realized he’d lost his literal-minded little brother. Ian had glanced away to watch Beth’s face be lit by the bursting fireworks.

“Ian, do you remember what was in that letter I showed you this morning?” Cameron asked.

Without looking away from Beth, Ian started rattling off the sentences, repeating the flowery phrases in a rapid monotone.

Cameron raised his hand. “Fine. That’s enough. Thank you.”

Ian stopped as though a tap had been closed. Cameron knew that Ian had paid little attention to what the letter actually said but could repeat the words in their precise order. Would be able to for years.

“The question is, did Mrs. Douglas write it?” Cameron asked, half to himself.

“I don’t know.”

“I know you don’t. I was pondering out loud.”

Ian looked him up and down. “Mrs. Douglas writes letters to Isabella.” Having delivered his declaration, Ian returned his gaze to Beth.

“Yes, they’re old friends, but this has nothing to do with—” Cameron broke off. “Ah, I see. Sorry, Ian, I didn’t understand.”

Ian didn’t answer. Cameron squeezed Ian’s shoulder, but briefly, knowing his youngest brother didn’t like to be touched by anyone but Beth. Or Isabella. Only beautiful women for Ian Mackenzie, damn him.

“Ian, do you know why everyone thinks you mad?”

Ian glanced at Cameron, not really caring, but he’d learned to look at people when they spoke to him.

Cameron continued. “Because you give us the answer, but you leave out all the steps we lesser mortals need to reach it. You mean that I should ask Isabella to show me one of Mrs. Douglas’s letters and compare the handwriting.”

Still Ian didn’t respond. As though he’d forgotten they’d been speaking at all, he turned away again, pulled back to Beth, the anchor of his world. Ian wasn’t watching the fireworks, Cameron saw; Ian watched his wife watching them, understanding their beauty through the conduit of Beth.

Cameron let him go. Another firework exploded, the heat touching Cameron’s face.

In the light of that firework, Cameron saw Ainsley Douglas slip away from Mrs. Yardley and walk steadily down a path toward the main garden, into darkness. As the guests applauded the display, Cameron turned and followed her into the night.

Chapter 6

“So he gave you the letter, did he?” Phyllida Chase faced Ainsley under the flare of distant fireworks. Ainsley had met her, as arranged, by the fountain in the center of the garden. The guests were still clumped on the west side to watch pyrotechnics that blasted over the meadow beyond.

“Lord Cameron returned it to me, yes,” Ainsley said. “You so obviously passed it to him while you knew I was looking. Why?”

Phyllida’s eyes glittered. “Because, I wanted you to know that I could hand the letters to anyone I pleased whenever I pleased if you took too long with the money. I never expected that you’d try to conduct your own bargain with him. You are to deal with me, my dear. No one else.”

“You are the thief, Mrs. Chase,” Ainsley said coolly. “I’ll deal with whoever is necessary. I’ve brought you the money, now I take the letters, as agreed.”

“You should not have tried to go behind my back, Mrs. Douglas. Because you did, the rest of the letters will cost you much more than the original price. One thousand guineas.”

Ainsley stared. “One thousand? We agreed on five hundred. It was difficult enough to persuade her to give me that much.”

“She shouldn’t have written such letters then. One thousand by the end of the week, or I sell them to a newspaper.”

Ainsley thumped her fists to her skirts. “I can’t possibly come up with a thousand guineas. Not in four days.”

“You’d better start sending telegrams then. She can afford it, for all her fussing, and it’s her own fault she was so indiscreet. One week.”