Cameron was kneeling before her, tugging off her stockings, the rest of her body bare. Ainsley wondered when that had happened, and then Cameron lifted her in his arms and deposited her into the hot water.
The water burned, stung, and felt so good. Ainsley sank back, letting the heat dull her senses.
She wasn’t afraid of horses—she wasn’t, she told herself. They were beasts that did what beasts did—but never had she come so close to dying because of one. If Angelo had been one moment too slow . . .
“Bloody Pierson,” Cameron was growling. “I didn’t ask him to bring that damned stallion. I was ready to kill him. If you’d been hurt, I would have killed him. I couldn’t have stopped myself.”
Ainsley put a dripping hand on her husband’s arm. Cameron’s shirt was already wet, and he impatiently pulled it off.
Ainsley rubbed her head on Cameron’s bare shoulder, liking how warm and solid it was. This strong, beautiful man belonged to her. The vicar in London had made her say so. With my body, I thee worship.
Cameron let her go but only to take up the cake of soap and begin washing her all over. Soap got on him as he scrubbed her back and arms, slid soapy hands to her belly.
“Get in with me,” Ainsley suggested.
Cameron grunted a laugh. “I’m too big.”
“We should have a large bathtub built then. One big enough for two. In our new bathroom. You really should hire some builders to start modernizing.”
“Hush.” Cameron nipped her ear. “Let me tend to you, love.”
Ainsley liked being tended to. Cameron slid his hands around her waist again, gliding soap up under her br**sts, and Ainsley leaned back in happiness.
“I love you,” she murmured.
She probably shouldn’t have said that—would he want such sentiments? But there was nothing she could do about it. She did love him, and that was that.
Cameron ended her speculations by kissing her.
She tasted fierceness in him, the rage and fear he’d been holding back. He let it go in the kiss, mouth shaking. Cameron half lifted Ainsley out of the tub, and water sloshed over the sides and over him.
“My Ainsley,” he whispered between kisses. “Mine.”
Yes, Ainsley tried to say. Yours.
Cameron’s breath heated her flesh better than the hot water. Hard, blunt fingers slid across her body, which was still slick with soap. Cameron opened her mouth with his, kisses hard and biting.
He scooped her all the way out of the water. Cradling her against him, Cameron carried Ainsley to the bed, where he started to rub her dry with towels the maid had left warming by the fire. Ainsley’s skin warmed, the friction of the towels good.
She especially liked the towel against her ni**les, which began to tighten. Cameron leaned down and took a dusky point into his mouth, and Ainsley groaned. She leaned back onto the bed as Cameron teased the nipple with the tip of his tongue and suckled her again.
Ainsley pulled on the towel that he’d wrapped between her legs. She closed her eyes and let out another sigh, more friction in a wickedly sensual place.
Cameron’s eyes darkened. He took the ends of the towel from her and pulled it himself, little tugs that stroked across her female places. A noise of pleasure escaped her. Cameron kept up the pressure, and Ainsley gave in to it, her fears dissolving.
Cameron wielded the towel masterfully. The mattress was soft on her back, Cameron’s warm body over hers. He was heavy on her, his solid chest pressing hers, the towel between them. Cameron tugged the towel again, and the hot fire sent her over the top.
Ainsley wrapped her legs around him, wet feet against his boots. She couldn’t stop the noises that came from her mouth, her groans and cries loud in the gloom of the dying afternoon.
When Cameron lifted away from her, taking the towel with him, Ainsley whimpered. Cameron’s mouth was pressed into a firm line, his brows drawn down. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the still-full tub. Standing up, he scooped water and soap over himself, washing away the dirt from the stables.
Ainsley lifted herself on her elbows and enjoyed the sight. Cameron’s body gleamed with water, and soap clung to his chest, shoulders, and long, dark erection.
He rinsed himself, casually lifting his balls to wash away the soap there. Soap suds chased themselves down his legs, then Cameron bent down to rinse his hands and scrub water over his face.
He stepped out, snatching up another towel to rub himself dry. Ainsley watched him come for her, her tall god of a husband, water darkening his hair and dripping to his broad shoulders. His hands, forearms, neck, and face were deeply tanned, as were his lower legs, the skin that the kilt covered more pale.
Ainsley assumed Cameron would lift her out of the bed to make love to her on a chair or the long sofa, or on the floor in front of the built-up fire. But Cameron tossed the towel away and pressed Ainsley back into the mattress.
Cameron licked her mouth, his damp, warm body so wonderfully heavy on hers. “I almost lost you,” he said, voice harsh. “I never want to lose you. Never.”
Ainsley’s heart beat thick and fast. He’ll tire of her in a sixmonth, she’d heard people say in Paris and again in Monte Carlo.
Cameron didn’t look tired of her now. He feathered kisses to her chin and neck before he moved down to her br**sts. He suckled her, his mouth hot and wet, then parted her legs and slid himself into her.
The towel had rubbed her hot, but when Cameron thrust into her, all was wet and slick.
He stopped, their faces together, and Cameron looked into her eyes. She saw so much need there, and pain, so much loneliness. Fear. The powerful, dangerous Lord Cameron Mackenzie was afraid.