Chapter 17
Ainsley’s breath went away again. “What?”
“I saw the marks on your abdomen, Ainsley. I understand what they mean. You had a baby.”
No one knew. Only Patrick and Rona, and John. Even Ainsley’s three other brothers, nowhere near Rome at the time of Ainsley’s hasty marriage, hadn’t known the full story.
Ainsley rose from her chair, walked across the room, and closed and locked the door. Cameron watched her, not moving, as she returned to her seat.
“The child lived for a day,” she said in a quiet voice. “But she wasn’t John’s.”
Cameron sat perfectly still. “Whose, then?”
“I met a young man in Rome. I fell in love with him and allowed him to seduce me. I thought he’d rejoice that I was having his child and marry me.” She wondered that she’d ever been so naïve. “That’s when he told me he was already married, and even had two children of his own.”
Cameron stared at her while red fury rose inside him.
Ainsley—beautiful, fiery, innocent Ainsley—used and discarded by a gigolo. “Who was he?” he asked.
Ainsley glanced up at him, cheeks red. “It was a long time ago, and I’m certain he gave me a false name. I was so very young and stupid, and I believed every word he told me.”
“Damn it, Ainsley . . .”
Cameron wanted to rage. He wanted to race to the Continent, find the blackguard and throttle him. The selfish fool had ruined Ainsley’s life before she’d even tasted the world.
“This is why you married an old man and buried yourself,” he said.
Her smile was sad, full of regret. “Patrick and Rona had taken me to Rome to expand my mind with art and music. Training me to be the wife of a cultured man. And then . . .”
The look on Patrick’s face when Ainsley had told him . . . she cringed from the memory even now. But Patrick, her good brother, had put aside his disappointment and taken care of her.
Ainsley remembered her nights of weeping, from shame, over betrayal of her young, fragile love, plus the knowledge that her brother was pairing her with a man nearly three times her age to save her reputation.
Patrick was kind, but he was firm, and he knew, very realistically, what the world was like. Rona, though sympathetic, had stood solidly with Patrick. Ainsley must marry John Douglas, and marry him quickly. And she must show the world that she was happy with her choice.
John Douglas had come to the house Patrick had rented in Rome, a tall man whose fair hair had gone to gray, his blue eyes warm but worried. Ainsley had met him before but not paid much attention to him, as he’d been, to her, merely an acquaintance of Patrick’s. Now he was there to be her husband.
John had been patience itself, and when Patrick and Rona had left them alone, John Douglas had taken her hand and gone down on one knee. His grasp had been warm, steady, even comforting.
I know I’m not what you want, he’d said. A young lady wants a dashing young husband, doesn’t she? And I know what this is all about. But I promise you, Ainsley, I will look after you. I’ll do my utmost. I can’t promise to make you happy, because no one can promise that, can they? But I’ll try. Will you let me?
He’d been so kind, so aware that barely eighteen-year- old Ainsley would rather be dragged behind a cart than marry an old man, that Ainsley had burst into tears. She’d ended up sitting on the sofa with him, being held and soothed. She’d clung to him and realized that, as bizarre a match as this was, he was a man, a good man, not a villain.
She did feel safe from the world with John Douglas—Patrick had made a wise choice. Ainsley had told John that of course she’d be happy to marry him, and vowed then to be as good to him as she could. Poor man, not his fault.
John had wiped away Ainsley’s tears, pulled a silver necklace from his pocket—his mother’s, he’d said—and clasped it around her neck. It rested there even now, under her high-collared black frock.
John had taken Ainsley’s hand and led her to Patrick and Rona, who were trying not to hover in the next room. Thus, Ainsley McBride had been engaged and, the next week, married.
“John Douglas must have been a hell of a man,” Cameron said softly.
Ainsley looked up at him, eyes blurred with tears. “He was.” John had accepted a pregnant young woman as his wife, agreed to treat another man’s child as his, and not say a word. “He knew he’d not likely have the chance to marry and be a father on his own, so Patrick’s favor was welcome. He told me.”
Cameron’s face was so still that Ainsley couldn’t read it. What was he thinking? Contempt at her weakness? At John’s? Understanding for what she’d done? He sat forward on the sofa, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his dark gold eyes fixed on her.
“This is why you put me off that night, six years ago,” he said. “You didn’t want to betray him.”
Ainsley shook her head. “John didn’t deserve it. As much as I wanted to stay with you, he didn’t deserve the betrayal.”
“I admired you for that, you know. Until I learned that you were a picklock, and a thief.” He gave her a hint of smile.
“I admitted to stealing the necklace, for a misguided reason. I thought you a blackmailer.”
“So we were at cross-purposes.”
“It was difficult to push you away. Believe me, Cameron, when I tell you how difficult it was.”
Cameron’s voice hardened. “I hope he appreciated it. What I sacrificed that night.”
“He never knew, of course. He must have wondered, though, whether I ever betrayed him. I didn’t.”
“No, you were most devoted and grateful.”
“Don’t sound so patronizing. I was grateful. John took me on out of kindness.”
Cameron gave her a withering look. “Ainsley, trust me, it wasn’t only kindness.”
“He was especially kind when my daughter . . .” Tears rushed at her. So long ago, and still the loss cut her deeply.
“I’m sorry, Ainsley.” Cameron’s voice gentled. “I truly am sorry.”
“I named her Gavina.” She raised her head, but she couldn’t see him through her tears. “Do you know what it was like when I was grieving, and all those around me told me her death was for the best? They thought they were making me feel better—I’d never have to answer awkward questions about why my daughter had black curls while John and I were both so very fair . . .” Her voice broke.
Cameron was standing above her, lifting her, holding her close. Ainsley leaned into his broad chest and let the tears come.
Gavina had been so beautiful, so perfectly formed. Had fit in Ainsley’s arms with the knowledge that she belonged there. She’d lived one day, one wonderful day, and then she’d weakened and gone. Her small body now lay in the Scottish churchyard near Ainsley’s mother and father.
His hands were warm, comforting, Cameron so tall and strong. The man who could make Ainsley’s body sing in passion now knew how to hold and comfort her, to let her know that he understood her grief.
She could remain here for the rest of her life, in this room, in his arms, and be perfectly happy.
The door handle rattled, then came a knock, followed by the hollow voice of a footmen. “My lord? Her Majesty is ready for you now.”
“Damn and blast,” Cameron whispered.
Ainsley wanted to say the same. She peeled herself away from Cameron, wiping her eyes.
“Meet me here in the morning,” Cameron said rapidly. “At nine o’clock. Can you do that? Without a bloody argument?”
Where he’d want to continue prying into her life, demanding to know why she’d not simply fly off with him. But he deserved to know. Ainsley nodded.
Cameron leaned down, gave her one hard kiss, and headed for the door where the footman was still knocking. “Yes, yes, I’m coming.”