“Tonight, then.” She turned to say a few words to Duncan, who was waiting outside, then left.
Duncan was at least seventy and probably more like eighty, Ben figured. No wonder the butler didn’t like changes. The man should have retired years ago—an observation that did little for his opinion of Lisbeth Hamilton. He’d heard about loyal family retainers but this was ridiculous. Depending on what kind of power he would have, he would try to see to the servant’s retirement as soon as possible.
Ben and Sarah Ann followed the ancient down a flight of stairs, Ben wondering all the way whether the man would make it. They passed through a long hallway until, near the end, the butler opened a door. The room was large and obviously unused. It smelled of dust, and the furniture was old, the fabrics faded. But it had a large window that looked over the lake. Compared to the hotels and barracks he’d used, Ben thought it was rather grand. He opened one of the inner doors and saw that it led into a small room that once might have been a sitting area. It too had a large window overlooking the lake.
Duncan was sniffing disapprovingly. “It needs an airing.”
“It’s beautiful, and awful big,” Sarah Ann said, peering out the window.
The butler’s stiff face relaxed slightly. “Geordie will bring the horse and other toys down when he finishes fetching your luggage. Effie will bring some water and air out the rooms during dinner.”
Sarah Ann released Ben’s hand and tried the bed. Ben and Duncan watched as she climbed up—it was very high—and bounced happily. Not thirty seconds had passed, though, before she had stopped bouncing and was spread out within the folds of a great comforter, her eyes closing despite her obvious attempts not to let them.
“She’s a bonny wee lass,” the butler said wistfully.
“Aye, she is,” Ben agreed, automatically using the Scottish term he’d heard so much in the past few days.
“Calholm has not been a happy house since young Ian left, and the old Marquess died,” Duncan said softly. “Perhaps she can bring some life back to it.”
Ben only nodded. He wasn’t sure whether she could. The atmosphere was so stifling, the tensions so high, and that only reinforced his misgivings about the wisdom of this venture.
He looked at Sarah Ann, who was nearly invisible in the great bed. She was smiling in her sleep. He had discovered that small things would make her do that. A wink. A kitten. Now a cozy bed.
He leaned down and took Annabelle from her basket and tucked her under Sarah Ann’s arm. Surprisingly enough, the kitten stayed there. She too was probably tired from her great adventure, though he felt sure she had no fear in her. Annabelle thought she could lick the world, both figuratively and literally.
He wished he felt as certain about his own abilities in this misty green country. He was more used to directness than subtlety, to open hostility than concealed distrust, to declared outlaws than people who hid behind titles and fine clothes. Ben had sensed in the few hours he’d been at Calholm that with every step he took, he would be walking between charges of dynamite, never quite sure when one would explode.
Chapter Four
Currents raged around the Calholm library as predinner sherry was poured and sipped. And “raged” was the word, Ben thought, his gaze flickering among the three adult members of the Hamilton family. The small room, with its leather sofa and huge walnut desk and lingering, civilized smell of brandy and cigars, could hardly contain the swelling of hot emotions bouncing off the book-lined walls.
With Sarah Ann at his side on the sofa, Ben continued his deceptively casual perusal of the others. Barbara was being openly seductive; the cousin, Hugh appeared hostile; and Lisbeth merely watchful. Warmth was a distinctly missing ingredient. Only Sarah Ann’s tentative smile provided a small glow.
Hugh eyed him with disdain. “Ben? What kind of name is that?” he said with scornful superiority. “Surely it must be Benjamin or—”
“No,” Ben replied with a shrug. “Just plain Ben. My father had no use for fancy monikers.” It was a lie. His real name was Bennett Sebastian Masters, but he felt no inclination to divulge that information. A choking noise behind him made Ben turn. Lisbeth was coughing, or more likely, hiding a chuckle. He couldn’t be sure whether she was amused at his feigning to be lazy and not very bright or at Hugh’s ready acceptance of it.
Hugh, who had introduced himself as Hugh George Alexander Hamilton, looked briefly startled, then his features settled back into their previous self-satisfied smirk. Ben could read his mind. The American is a country bumpkin, a man easy to sway and use. It was exactly what he wanted the man to think.
“Ben is such … a straightforward name,” Barbara said in the silence that followed. “And how do you and little Sarah Ann like Calholm?”
Sarah Ann, who was hanging on to his left hand, moved a little closer to him.
“It’s … impressive,” Ben responded.
Just then Henry the Eighth announced his arrival with a loud bark. He ambled in, yawned loudly, and went over to Sarah Ann, reaching out his giant tongue to lick a finger; then emboldened by that success, he started slobbering happily all over her. Sarah Ann giggled and reached out to pet him. She loved all animals and had no fear of them.
Barbara’s face paled. “I warned Lisbeth not to allow the dog in here tonight.”
“It’s not your place to warn me of anything,” Lisbeth said mildly. “This is Henry’s home, too.”
Barbara looked at Ben pleadingly. “It’s unhealthy for the child.”
Everyone was suddenly looking at him, as if waiting for Moses to come down from Mount Sinai. The first test, he realized. They all waited for his judgment: Lisbeth leery; Barbara expectant; Hugh gloating; and Sarah Ann pleading. At least, he knew what she wanted.
He shrugged. “After sharing close quarters with the devil’s own cat, I doubt Henry can do any harm.” His gaze went to Lisbeth. Approval flickered in her eyes.
Ben turned back to Barbara. Her violet eyes had widened with something close to astonishment, but she recovered quickly.
“I was just thinking of the child,” she said. “I should hate for her to become ill, and animals carry all kinds of diseases.”
“So do people,” Lisbeth inserted quietly. “How is the kitten doing?”
Sarah Ann’s face lit like a candle. “Papa said I had to leave her upstairs, but she likes the bed. Someone brought her some milk, and she’s very happy. But I don’t think she likes Henry.” She frowned. “Do you think they will be friends?”
“After they get to know one another, perhaps,” Lisbeth hedged diplomatically.
The devil cat and the huge, friendly beast of a dog? Ben had to smile. So far, Annabelle only liked Sarah Ann, and he doubted whether Henry would join that short list anytime soon.
“However, Sarah Ann,” Ben said, “I think you’ve had a sufficient bath for the moment.” He guided her out of the reach of Henry’s tongue and looked toward Lisbeth, who obviously took the hint.
“I think it’s time for dinner,” she announced, moving toward another room. Ben followed with Sarah Ann, leaving Barbara and Hugh to follow. They entered a large room, dominated by an enormous table that would easily seat thirty people. Five places were set at the far end of the table: the one at the head was flanked by two settings on either side. One of the chairs on the left side held a big plump pillow.
He looked toward Lisbeth. “Sarah Ann’s?”
“Unless you want it,” she said with an enigmatic smile. She was the greatest mystery of the three, full of contradictions: sometimes hostile, sometimes amused, sometimes simply watchful. He wished he could read her mind.
He helped Sarah Ann onto her chair, then waited to see who would take the seat at the head of the table. Hugh pulled out the chair across from Sarah Ann for Barbara and the one next to it for Lisbeth. Then Hugh took the chair at the head of the table.
The heir presumptive. As such, apparently Hugh had assumed nominal authority over the newest, and therefore more
powerful, widow, Lisbeth. But who really ruled the roost here?
Ben took the seat beside Sarah Ann and helped her spread her napkin in her lap. She stared at the array of utensils in front of her. “There’s so many,” she whispered to him in a voice that everyone could hear.
Ben grinned. There were a lot of knives and forks and such. He might be out of practice, but he’d been to enough dinner parties as a young attorney to decipher them. “You only need one at a time,” he whispered back.
Hugh frowned. “If you plan to stay, the child will need some instruction. Perhaps you do, too.”
“Oh, we plan to stay,” Ben said easily. “And I do think instruction is badly needed in this house, particularly in good manners, if not in how to handle forks.”
Hugh’s face went red, Barbara gasped, and appreciation played across Lisbeth’s face. Ben felt a slow anger starting to fester inside of him. He could understand Hugh Hamilton’s resentment, even his anger, after being denied what he thought was his. But enough was enough.
Ben looked lazily across the table at Hugh, making no attempt to hide his perusal. Hamilton was tall, and he sat straight. Women would probably call him handsome, but dissatisfaction in his eyes and a bitterness around his mouth detracted from what otherwise would have been a fine-looking face. His hair was sandy colored, his eyes dark blue.
“Hugh meant no offense,” Barbara interceded. “He only meant to say that some of our … customs will be new, and we want you to enjoy Calholm.”
An obvious lie, though presented prettily. Ben saw the warning glance she sent to Hugh, and he realized that there was something between the two, something more than a distant kinship.
Hugh looked sullen and made no apology.
Barbara turned all her attention to Ben, and gifted him with a brilliant smile. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Good enough,” Ben said.
“And how do you find Scotland?”
“Interesting,” he replied unhelpfully as bowls of steaming soup were placed in front of them by a young serving girl.
“America’s very impressive, I’ve heard.” Barbara was trying valiantly. Ben had to give her that. She leaned forward, showing no annoyance at his brief replies. Lovely black lashes frequently swept those large violet eyes. She was flirting, and she was obviously so used to success that it didn’t occur to her that he might be immune.
“Impressive,” he repeated with a polite smile.
“I’ve never met an American.”
She made it sound like an honor. Hugh cleared his throat in annoyance. Lisbeth raised an eyebrow, aware, Ben knew, of what Barbara was doing.
“I have so many questions,” Barbara went on, fairly bubbling with enthusiasm. “America must be wonderful.”
“Wonderful,” Lisbeth echoed dryly. “But I think our guest might like to eat.”
Ben grinned. “I do believe Sarah Ann must be hungry.” He quickly found a spoon from the assortment of silver and handed it to her. Sarah Ann gave him that tremulous smile, and he realized she sensed the antagonism in the room.
She took a sip, tasted carefully, then took another sip. She had never been a fussy eater, thanks, probably, to Mrs. Culworthy.
He took several sips himself, then asked, “Tell me more about Calholm. How large is it? What about the crops?”
“Our main income comes from sheep,” Barbara said. “We could double the income if Lisbeth would agree to certain changes. I’m sure you would approve.”
“If he has any say at all,” Hugh growled. “My solicitor doesn’t agree there’s a valid claim.”
“Mr. Alistair disagrees,” Lisbeth said mildly. She turned to Ben. “My husband’s father started breeding horses for steeplechase racing, and my husband continued the tradition. We have some of the finest horses in Scotland and one—Robbie’s Shadow—will run in the Grand National in England next year. If he wins, we can command exceptional prices—”
“If he wins,” Hugh cut her off. “And in the meantime those bloody horses and the taxes are draining Calholm. There won’t be anything left by the time that bloody stallion earns back even a fraction of the cost of those stables.”
“The Marquess spent his life building that bloodline,” Lisbeth said with no little passion. “You know he dreamed of a Grand National champion.”
“And that dream killed your husband,” Barbara interrupted. “I don’t see how you can have anything to do with those horses.”
Lisbeth looked stricken for a moment, then struggled to regain her composure. Ignoring Barbara’s comment, she turned to Ben. “Do you ride, Mr. Masters?”
“A little,” Ben said. Lisbeth looked slightly disappointed with his less than positive reply. At the same time, Barbara’s face took on a tiny glow of victory.
“I understand you’re from the west. I thought all westerners were … what do they call them?… cowboys,” Hugh interjected.
“Not all,” Ben said. “We do a few other things.”
“Mr. Alistair said you were a solicitor?” Barbara adroitly changed the subject.
“By training.” He felt no need to add that he hadn’t practiced law in the past eight years. He’d been doing more deadly work.
“Were you in the Southern fight for independence?” Hugh asked.
Ben knew many Brits—including the Scots—had favored the Rebel side. He also had a feeling that Hugh Hamilton was only too aware of his lack of Southern accent.
“The rebellion, you mean?” he said. “I understand you had a few of your own. Should I ask which side your ancestors favored?”
“In other words, Hugh, mind your own business,” Lisbeth said.
“Calholm is my business,” Hugh retorted, sparks flying again across the table.
Ben wondered whether this battle was for his benefit or whether argument was a nightly custom.
“Hugh was merely curious,” Barbara said softly. “We don’t see many Americans.” She leveled her violet gaze at him. “Have you seen any Indians?”
“A few,” he replied cautiously. “More than I would have liked.” That was true enough. Unless the Indians were renegades, he’d developed a policy of live and let live. He’d never understood the hatred most whites had against Indians.
“Do they really scalp people?” Barbara’s mouth was pursed in an attractive little O.
Ben looked toward Lisbeth to see whether she shared her sister-in-law’s bloodthirstiness but he couldn’t tell. Her expression was neutral. She was listening, but he had no idea what she felt—if anything.
“What’s a scalp?” Sarah Ann’s small voice punctured the sudden silence.
“It’s what’s on a man’s head, Sugarplum,” he replied.
“I thought that was hair.”
“So it is,” he said, “but under that is the scalp.” He watched her digesting that. It was always a miraculous procedure to him, that thinking process of hers.
The serving girl removed the soup and replaced it with the next course. Sarah Ann stared at her plate. “What’s that?”
“Salmon,” Lisbeth said. “Do you like fish?”
“I don’t know,” she said very carefully, “but Cully said I should eat everything on my plate. Good girls clean their plates,” she said as if reciting an oft-spoken rule. “I’m not very hungry, though.” Her voice drifted off.
“Who is Cully?” Lisbeth asked.
“Cully took care of me,” she answered. “I miss her.”
Ben’s heart wrenched. He scooted his seat back and set her up on his lap, ignoring the others at the table. “You don’t have to eat if you’re tired. Or even if you don’t want to.” He didn’t know how he’d missed the signs. She hadn’t been good all this time because she was naturally so; she was simply scared. He should have guessed, but he knew so little about children, about their needs or feelings.
“I’m not tired,” she insisted.
“I think it’s time to retire,” he said. “It’s been a long day for Sarah Ann.”
&nbs
p; “The maid can take her to her room,” Barbara said, disappointment flickering across her face.
“It’s been a long day for me, too,” he said. Then his gaze sweeping to Hugh, he added wryly, “But I thank you for your welcome.”
He set Sarah Ann down and stood, favoring his left leg. Damn but it hurt.
Lisbeth too was getting to her feet. “I’ll send up some warm milk and brandy.”
“I’d prefer whisky, if you have it.”
She hesitated a moment, then said almost reluctantly, “I would like to show you the stables tomorrow.”
Sarah Ann suddenly perked up. He could feel her come wide awake.
“That would be fine.” He leaned over and picked up the child. “You wouldn’t have a pony, by chance?”
“There are some colts and a filly, but no pony to ride,” Lisbeth said. “I’ll ask Callum to check around the countryside for one.”
“Callum?”
“Callum Trapp. He’s our horse trainer.”
“Thank you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room. Hugh had also gotten to his feet and looked none too pleased at the conversation.
“Are you planning to stay, then?”
Ben met his gaze steadily. “Did you think otherwise?”
“You don’t belong here. You have no right—”
“Neither do you if Sarah Ann’s claim is upheld,” Ben said softly. “It’s her birthright.”
“Bloody hell,” Hugh exploded. “Don’t be so sanctimonious. You want the money. You’ll take it and leave—”
“Think what you like.” Christ, his leg was hurting. And the longer he stood the more it ached. He turned toward the ladies. “Good night.”
Ben went through the door, carrying Sarah Ann, who clung tightly to him. A sip of that whisky Lisbeth Hamilton mentioned and bed. That was all he needed.
That and some relief from the turmoil in his mind. What had Barbara meant when she’d said that the Marquess’s dream had killed Lisbeth’s husband? Another accident? He remembered the crates in Glasgow. Accidents seemed to occur a little too regularly around here.
Thinking of Hugh’s open hostility, Ben wondered whether the young man had the guile or stomach for violence. He certainly had one for bribery.
Marshal and the Heiress Page 5