“Cameron,” Ainsley said as Cameron’s arms came around her again. “You can’t lose Jasmine. You love that horse.”

“I almost lost you. Pierson can go to hell.”

“But Jasmine. She doesn’t want to go with him.” Ainsley felt reaction setting in, her mind seeing again the black horse’s body and hooves swerving to crush the life out of her.

Cameron caught her as her legs gave way. He swept her up into her arms and carried her swiftly to the house, past the servants who’d rushed out to watch, and up the stairs to Ainsley’s bedchamber.

He set Ainsley down on her chaise near the fire, and she waved a weak hand in front of her face. “When did my life become so dramatic?”

“When you agreed to marry me. It’s confounded cold in here.” Ainsley’s large bedroom had a fireplace, not a stove, and Cameron further ruined his shirt by shoveling more coal onto the hearth.

The fire built, and the room warmed until Ainsley was sweating. Or maybe it was the heat of delayed shock.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere, love.”

“But Jasmine.” Ainsley’s teeth chattered. “She didn’t mean to. They were just being horses. I was standing in the wrong place.”

“Ainsley, shut it.”

Cameron trickled water from a large pitcher to its basin and wet a towel. He tugged Ainsley’s torn gloves from her and began wiping her dirt-streaked hands. The water stung where her palms had been sliced by her fall.

“Your hands are just as filthy,” Ainsley said. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and started to laugh. “And so is my face. I look awful.”

“Hush now.”

Ainsley heard voices outside the door. Two maids and a footman came in with a tub and ewers of steaming water, though Ainsley didn’t remember Cameron sending for them. Just as well he did. The mud in the stable yard, plus her scrambling journey over the door into the empty stall, had left her coated with dirt and horse leavings.

She’d have to speak to Cameron about installing taps in his house—the maids had to haul water up the back stairs. It was too far for them, really. She tried to break away from Cameron to help them, but he held her back.

“Hurry before it gets cold,” was all he said to them.

The splashing of water sounded heavenly. The maids quickly filled the tub, and then all the servants filed out, including the lady’s maid who’d tried to stay to undress Ainsley. Cameron closed and locked the door behind them.

Ainsley tugged at the buttons of her riding habit, but she couldn’t manage to open one. Cameron turned her around to face the roaring fire and undid all the buttons himself.

“You’re growing quite skilled at that,” she said.

Cameron peeled the broadcloth bodice from her back and rubbed her bare wrists. “You’re too cold. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

“A few bruises, I think.”

“More than a few.” Cameron loosened her corset and pulled it off, hand going to the tender spots on her back. “But these are from your rescue. Nothing broken, thank God.”

“Thank God and Angelo. Very clever of him to climb through to that stall from the one beyond.”

She’d seen the pulled-away partition between the stalls, the board walls made to be moved in case Cameron needed one large stall instead of two smaller ones. Ainsley had noted this absently while Angelo had helped her to her feet, the significance not really dawning on her.

“I’d kiss him,” Cameron said. “If it wouldn’t make both of us sick. But he will get a huge rise in wages.”

“He’s told me about the canal boats his family lives on,” Ainsley said. “I’d love to see them. I’ve never been on a Romany canal boat. Or any canal boat for that matter. Not something for a lady to do, I’ve been told.”

“I will take you to his canal boat, and we’ll have his family glide us from the Thames to the Avon and back again, but after I get you warm.”

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 breasts, 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 nipples, 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 breasts. 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.

Ainsley couldn’t speak, the sensation of him stiff inside her robbing her of words. She responded to his stark fear the only way she could, by loving him.

Cameron moved slowly, the first thrust followed by another equally as slow. He was so big, but she loved the feeling of him inside her. The wide bed was at her back, and Cameron’s warm, solid body was on top of hers. As always, he held himself back, muscles bunching as he took his weight on his fists.

Nothing existed but the heat of Cameron’s skin against hers, his arousal spreading her wonderfully, his damp hair trickling water to her cheek. They rocked together, back and forth, Cameron moving faster now and then faster.

Finally he was driving into her in desperation, their bodies slick together, the joining fierce. Wild waves of climax rolled over Ainsley and lifted her into him. Cameron grunted with it, and Ainsley’s pleasure rang through the room.

“My Ainsley,” Cameron whispered brokenly. “I can’t lose you. Never. Never, never. . .” His words moved with his body, Cameron losing control. “My sweet, tight, beautiful wife.”

Ainsley cried his name, loving the sound of it. Cameron kept on, their bodies coming together, Cameron’s words drifting into groans.

Then they were falling together, body to body, into the wide, comforting embrace of the marriage bed.

Cameron caressed Ainsley’s skin, wondering again at how incredibly soft she was. Ainsley was a strong woman, but there was nothing coarse about her. Her skin was like satin, sleek now with perspiration and water from the bath.

He’d almost lost her today. When Cameron had watched the stallion swing his huge body right for Ainsley, and Ainsley stranded in that corner, his entire world had died.

He’d known he’d never reach her in time. He’d have to stand and watch the woman he loved be trampled to death, all because Cameron Mackenzie had coveted a horse. Only Angelo’s quickness had saved her, a deed Cameron could never repay.

Cameron had screamed at Lord Pierson, but he knew blame lay at his own feet. If he hadn’t bullied Pierson into bringing back Jasmine, Ainsley would never have been standing there, crooning over Jasmine, while a ton of dangerous horseflesh did its best to kill her.

Cameron’s hand shook as he tucked the covers around her, and Ainsley smiled sleepily. The smile he might never have seen again, because of his selfishness.

When Pierson had shouted that he’d remove Jasmine as well as the stallion, the decision to let them go had been easy. Ainsley was worth far more than a damned horse, and she always would be.

Ainsley’s smile remained, though her eyes drifted closed. Cameron felt his own body relax, the crash of exhaustion after panic, coupled with intense loving. His eyelids grew heavy, everything in him willing him to let go, descend into oblivion, sleep . . .