It had been damn hard going, and Cameron knew that he’d never, ever done enough. He thanked God for his brothers, as unruly as they were, for helping take Daniel under their collective wing. Between the four of them, and then Isabella and Beth, they’d somehow managed to bring Daniel up.
“I’m here now,” Cameron said.
Daniel heaved an aggrieved sigh, tall enough to look his father directly in the eyes. “What I wanted to ask was—how old ye were when ye first took a mistress?”
Cameron felt the floundering start, but Daniel was perfectly serious. The lad’s face was full of curiosity and something anxious as he waited for Cameron’s answer.
“Why do you want to know?” Cameron had been fifteen, the lady in question, eighteen, knowing that a rich man’s son eager for his first encounter would probably pay well. Cameron had had enthusiasm but no finesse, and he’d been under no illusion as to why a sophisticated courtesan had put up with him.
“Why’d ya think? I’m sixteen, and it’s high time I had me own. You and Uncle Hart, not to mention Uncle Mac, had mistresses when you were still in school. Even Uncle Ian had one. The reputation of the Mackenzie family is no secret. I should know. I live with th’ bloody lot of ye.”
Bloody hell. Cameron’s own father’s advice on the matter of women had been: Keep your cock happy with tarts, take a lady to breed heirs, and don’t mix the two of them. Women should be sauce, not the meal, or they’ll make your life hell. Not what Cameron wanted to tell his son.
“A tart who takes up with a lad as young as you only wants your money,” he said carefully. “It’s no slight on you, Danny. It’s the only way they know how to live.”
“I don’t mean a courtesan, Dad. I mean a real lady.”
Cameron held on to his patience. “A real lady, as you call her, will expect marriage. If you want someone to bed, stick with tarts, but understand why they’re with you. Then you’ll both know where you stand.”
“Oh, very wise, Father. You married before you were even out of Cambridge. And Mother was older than you too.”
The scar on Cameron’s left cheek tingled. He rubbed it. “And it was a bloody nightmare. Remember that.”
“Aye, I know you hated me mum.”
“I did not hate your mum . . .” Elizabeth had been crazy, violent, and insatiable, but had it been hatred that Cameron had felt? Or rage, sorrow, disgust?
“I have one all picked out,” Daniel was saying. “And she’s not a tart.”
Cameron prayed for strength. “Who? A daughter of Hart’s guests? Please, Danny, tell me you haven’t already seduced her.” Hart would be in a black fury over that and put the blame squarely on Cameron.
“No, Dad. It’s Aunt Isabella’s friend, Mrs. Douglas.”
Cameron choked, coughed, searched desperately for breath. “What? No!”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s too bloody old for ye, that’s why not!” Guests turned, interest caught even through the fireworks. Cameron tried to lower his voice. “She’s not for you, Daniel.”
“Aunt Isabella says she is twenty-seven,” Daniel said. “I hear her widow’s portion was nothing, so I’d think she’d be grateful for a rich lad, don’t you think?”
Cameron glanced to where Ainsley stood not far from them with Mrs. Yardley, Ainsley again in gray. At least she wasn’t buttoned up to her chin this time. Now that the sun was down, the Scottish September night growing cold, she wore short sleeves and a bodice scooped halfway down her breasts. To fight off certain pneumonia, Ainsley had topped her ensemble with a thin, lacy shawl that was more holes than fabric.
Cameron’s thoughts slid back, as they had done all day, to Ainsley in the woods, her skin flushing as he undid the tenth button of her bodice. He’d pulled open the placket, and hadn’t the package inside been sweet?
Beautiful Ainsley spilling over her corset, breasts full and lush. He’d wanted to lick all the way down her cleavage, unlace the corset to bare her nipples, catch a velvet areola in his teeth. He’d been too damn hard to return to the game—he’d had to walk around in the mud a long time before making his way back to Mrs. Yardley to finish the match with her. It must have been the longest bloody game of croquet in the history of the world.
“She’s not for you, lad,” Cameron repeated with difficulty. “You leave her be.”
“Why? Are ye interested in her yourself?”
Hell, yes. “She’s not my sort of woman, Danny.”
Daniel clenched large-boned hands he was still growing into. “I know that. That’s why I like her. Because she’s nothing like your women, nothing at all. So she’ll be safe from the likes of you.” He snarled the last word, turned, and loped off into the darkness.
“Daniel . . .”
Daniel didn’t stop or turn back, disappearing at a run, off to who knew where.
Being a father was absolute hell. Cameron swung around again and found his view blocked by his youngest brother, Ian.
Cam was a little surprised to see that Ian had come outside—Ian hated crowds, was unnerved out of all proportion to them. However, it was dark, most of the guests avoided him anyway, and his wife, Beth, stood not many feet from him.
Ian was an inch or so shorter than Cameron, but just as broad of shoulder. His stance held a new strength, much of which was due to the young woman standing behind him chatting to one of the guests.
“Ian, what the devil was I supposed to remember to do with Daniel this afternoon?” Cameron asked him.
Ian glanced to where Daniel had gone. Ian would never give Cam placating phrases that others might—He admires you, Cameron; he’s just trying to please you. Ian took things as they were and understood the truth. He knew that Daniel’s frustration with Cameron was about equal to Cameron’s frustration with Daniel.
“Ride the bounds with him,” Ian said.
“Damn it.” Daniel loved to ride the perimeter of Mackenzie lands, which led through deep woods to craggy gorges. Cameron was usually too busy with his horses, but he’d assured Daniel they’d do it today. “Take some advice, Ian. Don’t look to me as a model for fatherhood. Watch what I do and then do the exact opposite.”
Cameron realized he’d lost his literal-minded little brother. Ian had glanced away to watch Beth’s face be lit by the bursting fireworks.
“Ian, do you remember what was in that letter I showed you this morning?” Cameron asked.
Without looking away from Beth, Ian started rattling off the sentences, repeating the flowery phrases in a rapid monotone.
Cameron raised his hand. “Fine. That’s enough. Thank you.”
Ian stopped as though a tap had been closed. Cameron knew that Ian had paid little attention to what the letter actually said but could repeat the words in their precise order. Would be able to for years.
“The question is, did Mrs. Douglas write it?” Cameron asked, half to himself.
“I don’t know.”
“I know you don’t. I was pondering out loud.”
Ian looked him up and down. “Mrs. Douglas writes letters to Isabella.” Having delivered his declaration, Ian returned his gaze to Beth.
“Yes, they’re old friends, but this has nothing to do with—” Cameron broke off. “Ah, I see. Sorry, Ian, I didn’t understand.”
Ian didn’t answer. Cameron squeezed Ian’s shoulder, but briefly, knowing his youngest brother didn’t like to be touched by anyone but Beth. Or Isabella. Only beautiful women for Ian Mackenzie, damn him.
“Ian, do you know why everyone thinks you mad?”
Ian glanced at Cameron, not really caring, but he’d learned to look at people when they spoke to him.
Cameron continued. “Because you give us the answer, but you leave out all the steps we lesser mortals need to reach it. You mean that I should ask Isabella to show me one of Mrs. Douglas’s letters and compare the handwriting.”
Still Ian didn’t respond. As though he’d forgotten they’d been speaking at all, he turned away again, pulled back to Beth, the anchor of his world. Ian wasn’t watching the fireworks, Cameron saw; Ian watched his wife watching them, understanding their beauty through the conduit of Beth.
