Therefore, Ainsley was happy to board the train and flee to the Continent. Patrick and Rona, when they received her telegram, would be as stunned and bewildered as the queen.

But Eleanor had been right: Ainsley was no longer a dewy-eyed debutante. She was a respectable widow with experience of the world, making choices with a clear head.

Well, an almost clear head, Ainsley thought as Cameron, having settled the tickets, sat down next to her in the compartment. His large body took up most of the seat, not allowing an inch of space between them. With Cameron, it was difficult for her to be sensible.

Daniel went right along with them, beaming at them from his side of the carriage. Cameron’s usual practice was to leave Daniel with Angelo in Berkshire until Michaelmas term began, when Daniel would return to school. It was the arrangement they had every year, Angelo not wanting to leave England and his family behind, Cameron not trusting anyone else with his horses while he was away. Traveling abroad was risky for a Romany anyway.

But Daniel had begged to accompany them. Ainsley, seeing the lonely desperation in the lad’s eyes, had taken his side. Cameron, already looking out of his depth, agreed.

They broke the journey in Le Havre, where Cameron booked three rooms in the most expensive hotel, one each for himself, Ainsley, and Daniel. When Ainsley pointed out that, now they were married, they could share a bedroom, Cameron gave her an unfathomable look and told her that the rooms were small and he’d take up too much space.

Ainsley thought she wouldn’t mind Cameron filling the space in her bedchamber, but Cameron didn’t give her a chance to argue. In the restaurant that night, Daniel ate with gusto, and Cameron consumed his meal steadily, like man determined. Ainsley found herself jumpy and without appetite.

Later, as Ainsley brushed her hair for bed, Cameron entered her room, closed the door, and locked it behind him.

Ainsley froze, hairbrush poised. She hadn’t seen Cameron alone since Daniel had burst in on them in the train compartment at Doncaster. As though the young man played chaperone, he’d stuck to them until after supper tonight, when he’d bade them a cheerful good night outside the dining room.

Not to go to bed, Ainsley noted. Daniel had strolled off to the lounge, probably to smoke cigars and play cards. Cameron let him without a word, and Ainsley thought it wisest not to interfere on her first night as Lady Cameron Mackenzie.

Lady Cameron. That would take some getting used to.

“Have you settled in?” she asked in a bright voice.

Cameron came to her, plucked the brush from her hand, and laid it on the table. His mouth was hot on her neck as he began unbuttoning her nightdress.

Ainsley half closed her eyes and leaned back against him. “I think all the buttons tonight, don’t you?”

Cameron bit her cheek. His fingers made swift work of the buttons, and he plunged his hands inside her warm nightgown. “I’ve been dying for you.”

Dying. Yes. Ainsley had been burning for him for weeks. They’d sat upright together on the train to Dover, Daniel across from them, and on the ferry they’d watched England recede from the deck, standing side by side but without touching each other. Agony.

Cameron’s blood went hot at the taste of her, so sweet and delectable. Look at her, with the little half smile, her eyes with that wicked gleam. I’m hurting for you, my wife.

My wife.

Her breasts were heavy in his hands. Ainsley breathed against his mouth while he played with her, then his hand went lower, cupping between her legs to find the curls there damp and hot. Ainsley’s intake of breath excited him, as did the scent of her, warm and aroused.

Cameron reached up and turned down the gaslight. The room dimmed to near darkness, but Cameron wanted that. He had too many scars, too many old hurts, that he didn’t want her to see.

He stood Ainsley up and pulled her nightdress all the way off. Ainsley leaned one hand on the dressing table, his cool, nude lover, waiting to watch her man undress.

Cameron divested himself of coat, cravat, waistcoat, stiff shirt, too many layers between himself and her. He pulled the undershirt from his flesh, jerked socks and shoes from his feet.

Then he hesitated, standing only in his kilt. He could keep the kilt on, because he’d gotten out of the underbreeches before he’d come in. He didn’t mind so much if she saw the scars on the backs of his legs, but there were terrible ones on his buttocks that Cameron wasn’t sure he wanted her to see.

Ainsley hooked her finger around his waistband and tugged. “Now then, laddie, don’t be bashful.”

Cameron dissolved into laughter. Cameron Mackenzie had never been called bashful in his life.

What the hell? He unpinned the kilt and let it drop, at the same time he sat down on the chair. It was a delicate chair, a lady’s dressing room chair, and Cameron felt its slender legs wobble.

Ainsley gave him a sly smile as she ran her fingers up his long and already throbbing shaft. Cameron groaned at the fire that raced up his cock. Dying for you wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

Cameron clasped her waist and pulled her down to him, fitting her to him and the chair. Ainsley half closed her eyes, her smile becoming a moue of passion as Cameron guided himself into her.

Ah, back where I belong. The position shoved him deep inside her, Ainsley closing around him like a fist. And like a fist, she squeezed.

Cameron eased his hands to her hips, kissing her neck, taking the flesh in his teeth. He suckled, and she made a soft noise in her throat. Cameron suckled harder, marking her. Mine. Forsaking all others. Damn, it had felt good to say those words.

Ainsley rocked on him, her body instinctively wanting to join with his as much as it could. Cameron guided her to the movement that would give them both the most satisfaction.

Her breasts flattened against his chest, nipples pressing him with pleasing friction. She kissed his mouth, the kisses clumsy with passion.

“That’s the way,” Cameron whispered. He nibbled her earlobe. “That’s the way to love me, my Ainsley.”

Her answer was a soft noise of pleasure.

“You’re so tight and wet,” he said. “Wicked Ainsley, so wet for her lover.”

Her little, “Umm,” made his heart beat wildly.

They rocked together, the chair creaking its protest, Ainsley’s legs wrapped firmly around him. Cameron braced his bare toes in the carpet, stroked hands through Ainsley’s silk swath of hair, and lost himself.

He was going to finish too soon. Cameron groaned with it, not ready, wanting to rock here with her far into the night. But his body was too excited, Ainsley too soft and beautiful. The scent of woman, and loving, undid him.

Ainsley’s breath started to come faster as she reached her peak, her hips rocking in a rhythm that didn’t have to be taught.

Cameron went with her willingly. His buttocks left the chair as he drove hard up into her, bracing her hips so the joining would be fast and strong.

The words that poured out of his mouth were blunt and filthy in praise of her body and what it did to him. Ainsley flushed, her eyes starry, her cries of delight growing louder as he spoke.

As her voice broke—Yes, yes, Cameron, please!—Cameron came. He was halfway off the chair, Ainsley screaming in pleasure. Cameron’s shout joined hers.

He crashed down on the chair again, its legs definitely creaking, but they held.

“Did I hurt you?” He kissed her, tumbled her hair. “Love, did I hurt you? Are you all right?”

Ainsley stilled his word with her fingers. “Cam, I’m fine. It was beautiful. So beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful, Ainsley.” Cameron cradled her close, breathing hard with the finish. She was soft and warm and tasted and smelled so good.

Not until he knew he was hardening again for the next round, did Cameron realize he’d spilled his seed inside her. It hadn’t occurred to him to pull out, and not because he’d remembered she was his wife. The marriage ceremony and all it meant hadn’t yet made an impression on his senses.

He’d wanted only to be inside Ainsley and stay there, where everything was safe and splendid, and her tenderness wrapped him and eased every hurt in his soul.

Cameron loved her twice more on the chair, then he carried her to the bed. Ainsley half woke when he pulled the covers over her naked body and caught his wrist as he made to turn away.

“Stay here with me,” she whispered.

He looked down at her for a long time, not debating, Ainsley thought, but fighting something inside himself. He wasn’t speaking because he couldn’t.

Cameron clenched his fists, a muscle moving in his throat, a large man delectable in nothing but a kilt wrapped carelessly around his waist. She saw him deliberately calm his anger, second by second, while he fixed his gaze on her. He wasn’t seeing her, but his eyes never left her.

“It’s almost morning,” he said in a careful voice. “Our train leaves early. Go to sleep.”

He turned and strode out the door, banging it so hard that the curtains fluttered on the bed. Ainsley heard him move across the suite and slam the door to his own room. Then, ever so faintly came the click of the lock.

Ainsley lay down again, her breath hurting her. Her body hummed from the warm, sweet love they’d made on the chair. Cameron gave all to lovemaking, his entire body engaged in the act. He was such a big man, and yet he’d held her so that she didn’t fall, had taken their combined weight all on himself.

How a man with such raw brutality could be so tender, Ainsley didn’t know, but Cameron managed it.

But his fear when she’d asked him to stay had been real. Deep panic had flashed in his eyes, and he’d fought himself away from her.

That such a strong man should fear angered her. Ainsley determined then and there to delve to the bottom of it, to have Cameron explain how he felt, and erase what had been done to him the best she could. She would do it.

The dual emotions—elation at lovemaking and worry for Cameron mixed together and kept her eyes open. As tired as she was, she couldn’t relax into sleep until she was on the swaying train to Paris in the bright sunshine of the morning.

Once they reached Paris, a lavish coach took them to the townhouse Cameron rented in a street off the Rue de Rivoli. The house rose six stories, with a wrought-iron railed staircase twisting through its grand foyer to a dome at the top.

Ainsley would have her own bedroom here as well, with windows that overlooked the garden behind the house. Cameron’s room was in the front of the house, with Daniel’s on the floor above theirs.

The townhouse was elegantly beautiful, modern, and quite unlike anything Ainsley had ever lived in. The queen’s private spaces tended to be crowded, cluttered, and full of family photos, her public rooms vast and lavish. Cameron’s house sported cool marble tiles and light-colored paneling, and was filled with paintings in the new styles of Degas, Manet, Monet, and the young Renoir. The furniture was clean-lined in the new handcrafted style that was a backlash against the ornately carved and mightily uncomfortable manufactured furniture of the day.

Money had gone into this house, and good taste—likely Mac had suggested the paintings and Isabella the décor—but it was still a bachelor’s house. Cool and elegant, but a bit bare.

When Ainsley suggested she might stitch a few pillows for the parlor, Cameron looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. Then he took her shopping.

Ainsley had visited Paris once, on her fateful trip to the Continent with Patrick and Rona, but they’d taken rooms in a small hotel in an inexpensive district. Rona had been so nervous about the city that she hadn’t wanted to venture very far from the hotel, so Ainsley had seen little of Paris.

Cameron showed her a new world. He took her to boutiques that sold everything a householder could want, to art dealers eager to sell Cameron the very best, and shops that dealt in expensive objets d’art. Ainsley could buy pillows ready-made or order some made to her taste. She did so, but then she went to a shop that specialized in luxurious embroidery skeins and outfitted herself with a new embroidery basket filled with everything she needed. Heaven.

They lunched in a café, and Ainsley discovered something else Paris did well—cake. Ainsley loved cake, and the confections of many thin layers separated with chocolate or jam or sugar syrup satisfied her soul. She ate an extra-large piece during their fourth shopping expedition and licked her fork, looking up to see Cameron watching her with amused eyes.