Marshal and the Heiress

by Potter, Patricia;

Ben wondered if anyone would be there to meet them, then discarded the idea. It wasn’t as if they were really welcome. Just the opposite if Martin’s warning about Hugh Hamilton were true.

  Still, Martin had sent advance word to the Hamiltons that he had located the daughter of the late Ian Hamilton and that the child and her guardian were booked on a ship to Glasgow. Ben wasn’t sure whether he’d specified the name of the ship. And Ben had delayed an earlier departure to ensure the legality of his guardianship.

  Sarah Ann wriggled again in his arms, and he hugged her to him. With each passing day, he was coming to feel more and more like a father, although many times a befuddled one. He was even growing used to her calling him Papa. At first, the term had been more than a little disconcerting—strange—but he’d known how she hungered for a parent all of her own, and now he relished the sound.

  He loved her smile, so rare in the weeks after her mother’s death but appearing ever more frequently, and that endearing grown-up pose. At times she seemed old beyond her years, a tiny wise person who continually surprised him. She could already read a bit and count to fifty, and she had infinite curiosity. He was always answering “why.” Her questions made him look at things differently, made him rethink old assumptions and simple facts, made him devise reasons for the sky being blue. She was vastly expanding his imagination.

  Now the great unknown facing them brought a torrent of endless questions from Sarah Ann.

  “Where are we? When can we leave? When will I get a pony?” He had promised both a pony and new clothes when they reached Scotland, though she’d shown little interest in the latter.

  The great unknown also brought out some of her fear. She snuggled even closer against him.

  “Don’t ever go away,” she whispered for the hundredth time in as many days. The frequency of the demand always pained him because it indicated that she still didn’t feel safe.

  “You’ll always be safe,” he swore. “I promise you that.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy her. Then her gaze went to the horses lined up on the street beyond the dock. “Can we get a pony here?” she asked.

  “When we get to Calholm.”

  “How long?” she wheedled.

  He grinned. According to his information, it was twenty miles by coach to Calholm. Soon enough, Sugarplum,” he said. “For now, we’ll find a hotel and get some good hot baths, then we’ll see about a coach tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance. I know Glasgow well.”

  Ben turned and recognized Andrew Cameron. Cameron had seemed to single them out on shipboard, charming Sarah Ann with several magic tricks. His curiosity had not ingratiated him to Ben.

  Andrew Cameron was a gambler and a Scottish lord of some kind. He was a charmer with an easy smile and a gentle way with Sarah Ann, though he was said to be deadly in a card game. Some other passengers had claimed he’d cheated, and the captain had ended the games a few days ago and told him he wasn’t welcome on any of his ships.

  Ben withheld judgment. Cameron was a puzzle. He was likable on the surface, but there was also a dark, brooding side to the man that put Ben on guard. Hell, he had his own dark, brooding moments, but still … Cameron had asked too many questions, particularly when he’d heard Ben was heading toward Calholm.

  So Ben merely nodded his thanks at Cameron’s offer of help. “The name of a good hotel would be welcome.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “Only until we can catch the coach to Edinburgh. I understand it goes near Calholm.”

  “It does,” Cameron said. “It passes a small village called Duneagle, and you can rent a coach there to take you by Calholm.”

  He spoke of the estate with easy familiarity. Which prompted Ben to ask, “You’ve been to Calholm?”

  “I know the family.” Then, without elaboration, he changed the subject. “As for an inn tonight, you might try the Four Horses. It’s small, but the food’s very good and it’s clean. And it’s close to the Edinburgh stage.” He grinned suddenly. “It’s usually too respectable for me, but I think you’ll find it suitable for you and the young lass.”

  Ben nodded again. “We’ll try it, then. Thank you.”

  “’Tis a real pleasure to assist such a bonny lass,” Cameron replied. He was tall with light brown hair and hazel eyes. His smile was infectious, and Sarah Ann favored him with a delighted smile of her own.

  Cameron grinned. “Maybe we’ll meet again. I’m going to Edinburgh myself, now that I’m banned from the Blankenship line.” The words were carelessly tossed out, without rancor or concern. Ben wondered whether being “banned” was a frequent occurrence for him.

  Sarah Ann was gazing at Cameron with open adoration, and he leaned down and plucked something from behind her ear, then turned it over in his hand. A coin. “You’re the only lassie I know who keeps her money behind her ear,” he teased.

  Sarah Ann giggled as she took the offered pence.

  “Papa’s going to get me a pony,” she told him.

  “That’s grand,” he said. “It will find Calholm a good home, and so will you. It’s a bonny place …” He trailed off for a moment, then, seeming to return from a distant place, added, “The hills are as green as the lass’s eyes.”

  A faint warning note sounded in Ben’s mind. But then why shouldn’t Andrew Cameron know Calholm, especially if he was a member of the peerage. Had he known Sarah Ann’s father, Ian Hamilton? Was cheating at cards an interest shared by both men? He had hardly tamped that thought when Cameron spoke again, this time quietly to him.

  “Be careful. The docks in Glasgow can be a dangerous place so watch yourself and the wee one.”

  Wearing city clothes—a suit of fine wool he had purchased in Boston and a heavy, flowing topcoat—Ben knew he looked more like an American businessman than a western marshal, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “How long do you plan to stay at Calholm?” Cameron asked him.

  Ben shrugged, annoyed at the man’s persistent questions. “I’m not sure,” he said and glowered. He was usually good at that, but his look didn’t seem to faze Andrew Cameron.

  “I have rel’tives there,” Sarah Ann offered, continuing a conversation Ben wanted to end.

  “Ah, that sounds fine,” Cameron said. He looked at Ben again, a smile still hovering around his mouth.

  Ben sighed, realizing Cameron wasn’t one to take a hint. Nor was Sarah Ann. And he questioned whether he wasn’t being too suspicious. He had become a loner, first shaped into one by the war, then by his chosen occupation. His job as a U.S. marshal had precluded friendships with anyone except his peers. And even those had been few. “Trust” was a word he’d all but forgotten.

  His attention shifted from the Scotsman to the shore. The ship had docked and the gangplank was being lowered. Passengers surged toward it; at the same time, a man from shore pushed against the arrivals to gain the deck. He stopped to speak with the purser. Ben was about to turn away when he saw both men turn toward him, then away. He thought for a moment that the men might be talking about him, but their glances were so fleeting, he couldn’t credit the idea.

  The man from shore—a burly figure with a pugilist’s battered face—continued to gaze around, his eyes studying other passengers as he gave the purser a package. Then he moved down the gangplank, disappearing into the milling crowd.

  Ben turned toward Cameron. “Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he said, then took Sarah Ann’s hand and headed toward the purser.

  The officer was talking to several other passengers, warning them to be careful on the docks, offering the services of crew men to help take luggage to hired carriages lining the street.

  Ben asked him about their luggage.

  “I’ll have a seaman take care of it,” the officer said. “And where are you and the young miss staying?”

  “Mr. Cameron suggested the Four Horses. Do you know it?”

  “Lord Kinloch?” the man asked, obviously surprised. “Aye, i
ndeed. It’s a good inn, though I’m surprised Kinloch mentioned it.” The purser scowled. “His taste usually runs to the more, uh, shady.”

  “Kinloch?”

  “That’s Cameron’s title, though he’s shamed it enough.”

  Despite the purser’s contempt for Andrew Cameron, his endorsement of the inn convinced Ben to give it a try.

  A number of hawkers shouted the quality of their wares as Ben and Sarah Ann walked along the pier toward the carriages for hire. The bags, the purser said, would be with them shortly. Keeping Sarah Ann’s hand firmly in his, Ben reached the end of the pier and had just started down a path between stacks of crates when he heard a familiar voice shout behind him.

  “Look out!”

  At the same time Cameron’s warning reached him, Ben heard the creak of moving crates, his well-honed instincts instantly sounding his internal alarm: danger. Ben shoved Sarah Ann ahead of him, just as one of the crates came crashing down on top of him, and everything went black.

  Chapter Two

  Calholm

  Lisbeth Hamilton tried without success to eat her dinner as her sister-in-law, Barbara, and cousin, Hugh, argued about the impending arrival of Calholm’s new heiress. Lisbeth hated discord, having grown up surrounded by it. At the moment, however, she had some appreciation for her dinner companions’ frayed nerves.

  The trustee for Calholm, John Alistair, had informed them a month ago that an heir had been located, then sent word last week that the child—and her guardian—should be arriving in Glasgow any day. He had not mentioned an exact date. The news had been met with varying reactions: anger on Hugh’s part, curiosity on Barbara’s—and on her own part, hope.

  “Ben Masters,” said Hugh contemptuously. “Sounds like an American ruffian. No doubt he’s latched onto our little cousin for the money.”

  Lisbeth privately agreed that was most likely the case. Still, she wondered what the American would think of this household, whether he would find it as unsettling as she did. Through various wills and trusts, both she and Barbara, as widows of successive marquesses, had lifetime rights to live in the house. After her husband Jamie’s death, Hugh had come to live with them as the heir presumptive, taking over some of the sheep-farming aspects of the estate. John Alistair, though, had refused to petition parliament to designate Hugh as heir and had launched a search for Ian, scapegrace though he had been.

  No one had expected Ian to be found. But after a year, the search had yielded not Ian himself but his daughter—and heir.

  The news had squashed Hugh’s hopes and spurred her own. She and Hugh had long been at odds over the future of Calholm’s breeding of horses. She was as committed to it as the old Marquess. John Hamilton had harbored a lifelong dream to establish a stable second to none in. the British empire. The goal was to produce a champion for the Grand National, the most respected steeplechase in the British Isles.

  And they now had a prospect: Shadow, a five-year-old stallion who’d been born the day Lisbeth had come to Calholm as a bride. She had always felt linked to the great gray horse. She had helped train him, had spent hours currying and talking to him; and when Jamie died—two years after his father’s death and one year after his older brother, Hamish—she’d assumed their quest. She would give Calholm its champion.

  Lisbeth lived for that goal. But then Hugh had arrived, equally determined to sell the horses and take Calholm in a different direction: sheep farming.

  There was also the matter of the twenty tenant families, another bone of contention between herself and Hugh. John Hamilton had been committed to the descendants of the men who had fought with his father, the original marquess, during the Napoleonic wars. The men who had helped the first Marquess distinguish himself, thus winning the King’s favor, a title, and the land. Those families wasted land better used as sheep pasture, Hugh argued. But she wouldn’t allow the tenants to be put off the land, not as long as she still drew breath, not as long as even a sliver of hope remained.

  Now, with the discovery of Calholm’s heiress, Hugh appeared to have lost everything. So did Barbara, who’d tied her future to Hugh’s. Their fates, and Lisbeth’s, seemed to be in the hands of the American who held guardianship over Ian’s daughter. And none of them knew what to expect, or even if the claim was valid. Perhaps there was no proof that the girl was, indeed, a Hamilton.

  The burning question was: would the American and the little girl bring about Calholm’s salvation or its ruination?

  “They have no right,” Hugh said bitterly at the table, stabbing at the meat on his plate. “The letter said the child’s mother was an entertainer. An entertainer, of all things!”

  “I thought you liked entertainers—particularly actresses,” Lisbeth said, unable to keep sarcasm from her voice. Hugh was a notorious rake who had accumulated a ton of debts on the expectation that he would inherit Calholm.

  He glared at her. He was aware that she had eagerly supported the search for another heir.

  “You would rather have an American opportunist claim Calholm?” Hugh inquired, one eyebrow raised.

  “At least he may not gamble it away,” Lisbeth said, unable to rein in her impatience with him. “John Hamilton would whirl in his grave if he knew your plans for what he so carefully built.”

  “You care about those damn nags more than people,” Hugh shot back. “And you know I’ve stopped gambling.”

  “No, I don’t,” Lisbeth said. “Your creditors cut you off when it appeared you might not inherit.”

  “Just wait,” he said. “The American will sell those bloody horses of yours. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. And he’ll bloody well kick off those tenants with a hell of a lot less than I would. He’s obviously after money, and he won’t be feeling any need to give it away to a bunch of poor farmers—family loyalty be damned.”

  “He can’t destroy Calholm any faster than you would,” Lisbeth retorted, feeling sick inside. Hugh was right. Her cause was probably hopeless. Still, she had to believe—for Jamie’s sake, for the sake of all the families who depended upon Calholm to survive.

  She had sufficient funds to maintain herself in a comfortable if not lavish manner. Jamie had left some money in trust. And her lifelong tenancy in the Calholm home was secured, though she doubted she would want to remain here if Hugh had control of the estate. Remaining would not mean much to her then, not if she couldn’t keep her promises to Jamie and Jamie’s father.

  “I wonder what he’s like,” Barbara mused. “I haven’t met any Americans.”

  Lisbeth noted Hugh’s swift glance toward Barbara, and she almost felt sorry for him. He thought Barbara was his; indeed, Lisbeth knew the two of them had been carrying on a liaison almost from the moment Hugh had arrived at Calholm. Had they been two other people, Lisbeth might have believed it was a matter of love at first sight. But Hugh had a long and honestly won reputation as a rake, and Barbara an equally well earned image as a flirt. A gleam already sparkled in her eyes at the thought of a new man at Calholm.

  And the American would be susceptible. Every man was. Barbara was a great beauty and had the charm to match. If she didn’t use these assets for all the wrong reasons, Lisbeth probably would have liked her. In many ways, Barbara was like a child: pleasant and happy as long as she got what she wanted.

  It was early November, but Barbara had already depleted her year’s allowance—more than her year’s allowance. Lisbeth knew she would never again see the money she had lent Barbara, and she’d refused to lend her more, despite Barbara’s continued requests. Everything Lisbeth had was needed for the horses, their training and feed—a fact that Barbara resented.

  Hugh glared at Barbara. “He’s probably an old rustic. Not your type at all.” Then he added slyly, “He might prefer Lisbeth.”

  Lisbeth didn’t much care for Barbara’s amused smile, even though she knew she wasn’t a beauty. She’d never even tried to be, considering the expenditure of the time it required a waste.

  “Or pe
rhaps he has a wife,” Lisbeth countered, although Mr. Alistair hadn’t mentioned one. Or he might be old and rickety, as Hugh suggested. Old and rickety probably wouldn’t stop Barbara, though, not if she could get her hands on Calholm.

  Suddenly Lisbeth lost her appetite. Too much depended on Ben Masters—and his integrity. Unfortunately, with the exception of Jamie, most men she’d met lacked that quality. And even Jamie had been unable to deny Barbara anything she really wanted.

  “He’ll be short and fat,” Hugh was saying, knowing that Barbara preferred handsome men. And Hugh was handsome.

  Barbara gave him an infuriatingly smug look.

  “If you—” he started to threaten, and Lisbeth could bear no more.

  She rose from the table, and her dog, Henry the Eighth, who had been lying next to her chair, rose with her.

  “Do you have to bring that beast into the dining room?” Barbara asked. “I don’t imagine the Yankee will approve.”

  Henry the Eighth, a huge, wooly beast, stretched, ignoring Barbara as he always did. He didn’t care for Hugh or Barbara any more than his mistress did.

  His tail hit Barbara’s chair with a resounding thump, and she jumped slightly. Henry wagged it again in utter defiance, and Lisbeth had to grin. Henry was a continuing bone of contention in the household, but he went every place she did, and the American would simply have to live with that. She would fight for three things: Calholm’s tenants, her dog, and her horses.

  “Mayhap the American will not.” She shrugged. “And mayhap he likes dogs.”

  “Not that great ugly dog,” Barbara said and shuddered.

  “He’s not ugly,” Lisbeth protested on Henry’s behalf, not that Henry cared. She did, though. He was her best friend. Her only friend. She had always been an onlooker, often an unwilling one. She was that now, in this home. Calholm had never really been hers, not even for the brief time when she was its official mistress.

  She soon would no longer have even nominal control. The new heiress—a mere child—would have the estate in entitlement until she gave birth to a son. That, at least, was the most prevalent interpretation of the mishmash of wills and entitlements.