Mac raised his brows. “Oh really, old chap? You too?”
Ian nodded. “Beth also will have a child.”
Mac laughed uproariously and clapped Ian on the shoulder. “Our timing is impeccable, brother.”
“It’s only odds,” Ian said without changing expression. “We each enjoy going to bed with our wives, and we do it as often as we can. The probability of another conception, given the time since our first children were born, is high.”
“Thank you for that analysis.”
“You’re welcome,” Ian said in all seriousness, although Mac swore he saw a gleam of humor in his brother’s eyes.
“What about you, Ian?” Mac asked. “I spilled my heart to you. Your turn. Are you happy?”
For answer, Ian shifted his gaze to Beth. At that moment, both ladies laughed. Isabella threw back her head, exposing her white throat, her red lips wide with her smile.
Likely the two ladies were making fun of their men. Not that Mac minded.
Beth lost her hat and screeched as one of the dogs gleefully grabbed it in his mouth and ran away. She leapt up and chased him.
Ian gave Mac a grin, his eyes lighting with more joy than Mac had ever seen in them. “Yes,” Ian said. “I am happy.” He turned and ran to help rescue Beth’s hat.
Mac walked over to the blanket, bouncing Eileen in his arms, and dropped next to Isabella, who was still laughing. “What is funny, my darling?”
“Highlanders and their legs.”
Mac studied his sun-browned legs stretching out from his kilt. “What’s wrong with our legs?”
“Nothing at all, Mac dear. Beth is thinking of writing an article on Scotsmen.”
Mac watched Beth running after the dog, her skirts in her hands, Ian cutting the chase short by grabbing the dog’s collar. Beside Mac, Ian’s son dozed off in his basket.
“Really, what is wrong with our legs?” Mac repeated.
“Nothing at all.” Isabella sent him a smoldering look. “I like to think of them wrapped around mine.”
Mac covered Eileen’s ears. “Really, my dear, you are unseemly.”
“I’d like to be even more unseemly. Next time, perhaps we should picnic on our own.”
“I could arrange that.”
“I find it odd that being with child makes me so randy,” Isabella said thoughtfully.
Mac wanted to laugh at her choice of words, but he heated under her smile. She was so beautiful sitting here with him, the sun on her brilliant hair, her green eyes like emeralds in shadow.
“I’ll not argue with you,” Mac said.
“Good.” Isabella gave him a wicked wink and reached for Eileen. “Perhaps we can make a start while everyone is chasing the dogs.”
Mac looked over at Ian, who was trying to persuade the dog to give up the hat. Daniel had caught Aimee and was tossing her in the air. Beth stood back and watched Ian, hands on hips, a loving smile on her face.
Mac wrapped one arm around Isabella and caught her lips with his. Between them, Eileen made happy noises.
“I love you, Mac Mackenzie,” Isabella murmured.
“I love you, Lady Isabella.”
“We had a scandalous marriage before,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Perhaps we can make this one even more scandalous?”
Mac smiled into the next kiss, his entire being rejoicing. He breathed in the scent of her, warm from the sunshine, and the powdery sweetness of Eileen.
“My wicked little debutante,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll be as naughty as you like. All of society will swoon to behold our decadent ways.”
Isabella slanted him a sinful smile. “I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
Turn the page for a preview of the next historical romance by Jennifer Ashley The Many Sins of Lord Cameron Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
Chapter 1
SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1882
I saw Mrs. Chase slide that letter into Lord Cameron’s pocket, I know I did. She did it almost under my nose. Bloody woman.
Ainsley Douglas sank to her knees in her ball dress and thrust her arms deep into Lord Cameron Mackenzie’s armoire.
Why did it have to be Cameron Mackenzie, of all people? Did Mrs. Chase know? Ainsley’s heart thrummed before she calmed it down. No, Phyllida Chase could not know. No one did. Cameron could not have told her, because it would have come ’round to Ainsley again with breathtaking speed, society gossip being what it was. Therefore, it stood to reason that Cameron had kept the tale to himself.
Ainsley felt only marginally better. The queen’s letter hadn’t been in the pockets of any of the coats in the dressing room. In the armoire, Ainsley found shirts neatly folded, collars stacked in collar boxes, cravats carefully separated with tissue paper. Rich cambric and silk and softest lawn met her fingers, costly fabrics for a rich man.
She pawed hastily through the garments, but nowhere did she find the letter tucked carelessly into a pocket or fallen between the shirts on the shelf. The valet had likely gone through his master’s pockets and taken away any stray paper to return it to Lord Cameron or put it somewhere for safekeeping. Or Cameron had already found it and returned it to Phyllida, or perhaps he’d thought it female silliness and burned it. Ainsley prayed fast and hard that he had simply burned it.
Not that such a thing would completely solve Ainsley’s dilemma. Phyllida, blast the woman, had more of the letters stashed away in her house in Edinburgh. Ainsley’s assignment: Retrieve them at all costs.
The immediate cost was to her dove-gray ball dress, the first new gown she’d had in years that wasn’t mourning black. Not to mention the cost to her knees, her back, and her sanity.
Sanity was further disturbed by the sound of the door opening behind her.
Ainsley froze. She backed out of the wardrobe and turned around, fully expecting Cameron’s rather frightening Romany valet to be glaring down at her. Instead, the door blocked whoever had pushed it open, giving Ainsley a few more seconds to panic.
Hide. Where? The door to the dressing room lay across the length of the chamber, the armoire behind her too full for a young woman in a ball dress. Under the bed? No, she’d never dash across the carpet and wriggle beneath it in time.
The window with its full seat was two steps away. Ainsley dove for it, stuffed her skirts beneath her, and jerked the curtains closed. Just in time. Through the crack in the drapes, she saw Lord Cameron himself back into the room with Phyllida Chase, former maid of honor to the queen, hanging around his neck.
The sudden burn in Ainsley’s heart took her by surprise. She’d known weeks ago that Phyllida had stuck her claws into Cameron Mackenzie—Isabella, his sister-in-law and Ainsley’s great friend, had told her. Why should Ainsley mind if Phyllida pursued him? She was the sort of woman he preferred: lovely, experienced, uninterested in her husband. Likewise Cameron was the sort Phyllida liked: rich, handsome, not looking for a deep attachment. They suited each other well. What business was it of Ainsley’s?
A lump formed in her throat as Lord Cameron shut the door with one hand and slid the other to the small of Phyllida’s back. He scooped her to him, leaned down, and took her mouth in a leisurely kiss.
The lump in Ainsley’s throat tightened. There was desire in that kiss, unashamed, unmistakable desire. Once, Ainsley had felt it. She remembered rippling heat softening her body, the point of fire of his kiss. It had been so long ago, but she remembered the imprint of his mouth on her lips, her skin, his hands so skilled. With effort, she banished the memories. She’d successfully managed to for six years; she could do it now.
