Marshal and the Heiress

by Potter, Patricia;

  “I think that’s a splendid idea,” he replied with a big smile.

  He ignored the host of grinning servants as he awkwardly rose, bowed with what dignity he had left to Lady Barbara, and took Annabelle from Lisbeth. He gave Lisbeth a rueful grin, then made for the bedchambers upstairs with his two little ren’gades.

  Chapter Nine

  After picking several children’s books from the shelves, Lisbeth prowled the library in search of distraction. Any kind of distraction. Henry prowled behind her, unintimidated by his brief scolding. He knew he was easily forgiven; and she needed his company.

  She had never known a man to laugh at himself before. It had nothing to do with pride—or perhaps everything. Ben Masters had pride: it was evident in the way he held himself, in his air of self-confidence. That was the difference. Only a man entirely comfortable with himself could find humor in being sprawled on the floor clutching a cat and being sat upon by a dog.

  The image made her smile again. In that moment, he’d seemed so heroic to her.

  Henry the Eighth moaned for attention, and she leaned down to give him a hug. “You’re a renegade, too,” she told him, “but an endearing one.” He buried his large head in the crease between her breasts.

  “Ah, the rewards of roguery.”

  She stood up abruptly at the sound of a wry masculine voice. Ben Masters had changed to a comfortable-looking, well-worn pair of denim trousers and a cotton shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, showing muscled arms and a spattering of golden hair. She had never seen a man in denim trousers before, though she knew of the material and had even seen some in a dressmaker’s shop. She couldn’t help but notice the way it hugged his hard, lean body.

  His eyes caught her gaze, and she blushed.

  “I’ll have to get more suitable clothes in Edinburgh,” he said. “But these are comfortable.”

  “Wear those in Edinburgh,” she said, “and every lady there will be …” she trailed off.

  “Will what?” he asked with interest. He took several steps toward her, favoring his leg more than he had all day.

  Guilt raced through her. His various misadventures at Calholm had evidently taken their toll.

  She ignored his question, for she didn’t want to speak the answer. “Henry and I seem disastrous for you,” she said. “Is there anything I can get you for that leg? Some salve?”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing. I’m used to its small rebellions. I thought, though, I might take you up on your offer of a book for Sarah Ann.”

  “What about a brandy?”

  “That, too,” he replied, “especially if you’ll share one with me.”

  She hesitated. Ladies didn’t drink with men, except wine at meals. But then he was American, and his customs were obviously different, freer. And perhaps drink would loosen his tongue; she hungered for more information about him. She hungered for other things, too, but she tried to ignore those needs. It was difficult when every nerve in her body was humming.

  “All right,” she said, walking stiffly over to the cabinet where they kept the brandy. She poured two glasses, giving him by far a larger portion.

  She noticed he watched her carefully though he said nothing. He took the glass she offered and sat down in one of the chairs, stretching out his leg. Henry flopped contentedly next to him.

  Lisbeth felt deserted. Henry usually stayed next to her and seldom hovered around a stranger for more than a moment’s inspection.

  “He likes you,” she said.

  “Probably because I make a great pillow,” Ben said wryly. “He’s just waiting for another chance.”

  She giggled. She couldn’t help it. “I think Henry the Eighth’s taken with Annabelle.”

  “God help us.” He sighed. “Don’t tell me he’s as indiscriminate as his namesake.”

  Lisbeth giggled again, astounding herself. She never giggled. “Everyone is scared of him because he’s so big, but all he wants is to be liked. I think he admires Annabelle because she isn’t intimidated.”

  Ben raised a skeptical eyebrow. She imitated his shrug, and the corner of his mouth bent into what appeared an unwilling smile. Why would he be reluctant to smile at her?

  He took a slow sip of the brandy. “It’s good.”

  “Scotland is well known for the quality of its spirits.”

  “I thought it was known for consuming them.”

  She grinned. “That, too. What about Americans?”

  “We hold our own.”

  She had noted, though, that he was cautious in his drinking. He usually took no more than a glass of wine during supper, and he was drinking very slowly now. Not like Hugh, or even Jamie, both of whom often drank to excess.

  He was quiet, nursing his drink, looking around the library with an appreciation Lisbeth understood. She loved the room; it had become her private sanctuary since no one else ever used it. She hadn’t even known so many wonderful books could exist in one home; the library—if it could be called that—at her childhood home had been small, its volumes concentrating on war and weapons.

  “There’s a great variety here,” she said. “Jamie’s father loved books. He bought everything he could.”

  “And Jamie?” he asked. “Did he also love books?”

  “No,” she said wistfully.

  “What did he like besides horses?”

  “Music, drink, tales of Scottish feats.”

  “Did you love him?”

  It was an impertinent question, but then she had asked her share of the same. A week ago, she would have said yes, without reservation. Now, she hesitated.

  She had been so grateful to Jamie. He had given her a home, and he’d always been kind. They’d shared pride over Shadow and the excitement of racing.

  Besides, she’d never believed in the kind of love portrayed in books and song. Love had never existed in her home. Her mother and father had hated each other and her brothers considered their wives as slaves to be used.

  Yet Ben Masters made her wonder if there wasn’t something more to be had from love than what she’d had with Jamie. If Ben didn’t make her blood run hot, he certainly warmed it considerably. The tight cloth of his trousers hid little, and every time her gaze dropped slightly, something deep and primitive—and new—inside her responded.

  She sipped the brandy, though she was tempted to gulp it.

  “You didn’t answer,” he reminded her.

  “Why would you think I didn’t love him?”

  “No reason,” he said. “I’ve heard of arranged marriages in Britain. Alliances. A system with some advantages, I suspect,” he added with a shade of bitterness.

  Lisbeth hesitated. Her marriage had been arranged. Jamie’s father had been demanding that he marry, and since the Hamilton name was finer than her own, her father agreed readily enough. She had few illusions that Jamie loved her. She had been in the right place at the right time when his father demanded marriage: she had a sufficient dowry and she was suitable, since her father was a clan chief, if not titled.

  “I cared deeply for Jamie,” she said simply. She didn’t add that he had been the first person to show her any affection at all.

  Ben’s gaze left her face and went to the brandy in the glass. She watched him study its rich color for a moment, then she asked the question nagging her.

  “Sarah Ann’s mother? Did you love her?”

  His mouth quirked upward in that enigmatic half-smile. “I cared deeply for her,” he said, turning her own words back on her.

  “You’ve never wed?”

  “No.”

  “Why? You obviously like children.”

  “I didn’t know that until Sarah Ann came along,” he said. “And she is … unique.”

  “All children are unique.”

  “You and Jamie didn’t have children?”

  “I lost a bairn before it was born,” she said, feeling tears well in her eyes.

  “And Barbara?”

  “She was married less than
a year when her husband died.”

  “How did he die?”

  She hesitated. It wasn’t her tale to tell, and she’d never known the truth of the matter. “Her husband was shot,” she said shortly.

  “Another accident?”

  Lisbeth shook her head. “A duel.”

  Ben’s brow furrowed. “I thought they were illegal.”

  “They are,” she replied, wondering whether he was avoiding her question by asking others. “Tell me about Sarah Ann’s mother and Ian Hamilton.”

  Ben finished his brandy, then carefully set the glass down. “I don’t know that much. She was married to Ian three years before he was killed during a poker game. Mary May was pregnant then. I know she had a difficult time of it, but she did a damn good job of making sure Sarah Ann was cared for.” He remembered the first time he’d seen her, the way she’d boldly approached him in a saloon. “She was very courageous.”

  “It’s almost as if the family is cursed,” she said slowly.

  “I don’t believe in curses,” he stated. “But why did Hamilton leave here?”

  Lisbeth had heard whispers, though John Hamilton had forbidden anyone to use Ian’s name in the house. “He’d been gone years when I met Jamie, and the family didn’t talk about him. There was some scandal …”

  “Cheating?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “That’s what I heard. How did you know?”

  “That’s what got him killed in Texas. Texans take it very seriously. A man caught cheating at the poker table doesn’t simply get banished to another country.”

  He stood slowly, as if he were in pain. But once on his feet, he moved gracefully, even with the slight favoring of the one leg. He walked over to one of the bookshelves and read titles for a minute or two, then removed a book from the shelf. “If I may, I would like to borrow this.”

  Lisbeth nodded, and rose, too. She picked up the children’s books she’d already gathered and handed them to him. “For Sarah Ann.”

  “I only have one children’s book, and Sarah Ann has memorized all those tales. I’m afraid I’m not very good at storytelling.”

  She believed that. He had the look of a man who lived life, not of one who imagined it. And she doubted his real-life tales would be the kind fit for children.

  “You’re welcome,” she said softly. “There’s more if you need them.”

  He hesitated at the door for a moment, then turned to her. “You won’t reconsider going to Edinburgh?”

  Lisbeth was surprised. Why would he want her when he had Barbara? She was tempted, but she knew what would happen. She wouldn’t be able to resist needling Barbara, nor Barbara her. And she wouldn’t play second fiddle.

  “I have too much to do here,” she said. “We’re trying to get Shadow ready for the Grand National.”

  His blue eyes suddenly turned piercing. There were unfathomable depths to him, and she was afraid she might drown in any attempt to reach the bottom.

  “Would you like to go to the loch tomorrow?” she asked. “Sarah Ann can ride her new pony.”

  “She would like that.”

  “And would you?”

  “I think any trip away from Annabelle would be pleasurable,” he said lightly.

  “I believe you really admire her.”

  “Perhaps I do,” he said. “I’ve always liked independence.”

  Lisbeth swallowed hard. Was he referring to her?

  “Will you stay here in Scotland if Mr. Alistair upholds Sarah Ann’s claim?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You could always designate a manager,” she ventured.

  “I could, couldn’t I?” he said noncommittally. “But this conversation is premature. Thank you for the brandy, the books, and the conversation, Lady Calholm.”

  The room had suddenly turned cold. Lisbeth knew she shouldn’t have made the last comment. It was far too soon, but guile was not one of her strong points.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Masters,” she said just as formally.

  He looked disconcerted for a moment, then grinned. “Sounds sort of ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  “About as ridiculous as ‘Lady Calholm,’” she replied.

  The ice in his eyes turned into heat. Yet she still sensed a distance between them, one she desperately wanted to breach.

  She stepped toward him, reluctant to let him go. Whether it was the brandy or the meeting of their gazes, awareness flashed and thundered between them, like a sudden Scottish storm.

  His eyes burned through her, igniting waves of heat cascading along her body. Her fingers bunched into a fist as the impact of his gaze became overwhelming. A craving such as she’d never known gnawed inside her. She wanted to touch that hard face and watch it soften. She wanted to kiss that mouth and feel it move against hers. She wanted it more than anything.

  He reached out and touched her hair, confined again in its French twist. Then his fingers moved to her face, tracing the line of her jaw with one finger. His hands were infinitely gentle. The gentleness contrasted with the heat those fingers left in their wake.

  She fought her racing emotions. He knew she wanted something from him. She couldn’t allow him to believe she was willing to trade her body for it. But she’d never felt like this before, barely in control of needs so intense they threatened to explode.

  He moved toward her, and his mouth came down on hers. Hard and demanding and searching.

  She wanted to respond. Needed to respond. But if she did, he would believe the worst. Her body ached with fierce wanting, but she managed to pull away. Lisbeth stood trembling, her gaze lowered, and slowly she backed away.

  “Lisbeth?” When she looked up at him, she saw traces of suspicion and cynicism. She stepped back again from temptation. She couldn’t afford the cost, the complete loss of her self-respect. The ache within her grew deeper, more unbearable.

  “I won’t trade,” she said.

  He was silent, and she knew he understood. She turned her back to him, not wanting him to see the tear beginning to leak from one eye.

  “I don’t trade, either, Lisbeth,” he finally said. “I think—”

  “You wanted to see how far I would go?” she asked bitterly. “Well, now you know. Too stupidly far.”

  She was shaking now, and she felt cold, so cold. All the heat had drained from her body as if a pail of icy water had been thrown on her. “Please leave,” she said, cringing at the break in her voice.

  Silence, then a hand touched her shoulder and guided her around to face him. Fingers cupped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his searching look. She wondered whether he ever took anyone at face value. She doubted it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said unexpectedly, and she suspected he seldom apologized.

  “Don’t be,” she said, biting her lip. “I just thought … I suppose I didn’t think.”

  “I’m not very experienced with emotions, but I do understand needs. I’m just not sure what yours are. Or at least which are the most important to you. Whether it’s Calholm or—”

  “Go to the devil,” she said, then left the room. Her rage got her upstairs to her bedchamber before she started shaking again. She’d made a complete fool of herself.

  But damn the man! She didn’t understand him at all. For a few moments, he had seemed to feel the same attraction she felt for him. Or had he been testing her all the time?

  Henry whined, asked for permission to join her on the bed, then climbed up slowly. Her usual amusement at his tentative approach—one leg at a time—was missing. She simply hugged him.

  “Oh, Henry,” she said. “What have I done?”

  Ben broke his own rule. He had a second drink, then a third.

  Christ, he ached for her.

  But he couldn’t quiet his suspicions that Lisbeth wanted something from him that he wasn’t willing to give. He sure as hell wouldn’t trade Sarah Ann’s heritage, and neither did he ever plan to give his heart away again.

  But she’d looked so pretty
in that library. The light from the oil lamp had glinted off her auburn hair, and her cheeks had been rosy, her lips inviting. She’d been the picture of a polished young woman at home in this elegant room full of books. She belonged here. He didn’t.

  Hell, he didn’t even want to be here.

  He thought back to what she’d said. A manager. That’s what she wanted from him: a manager of her choosing. Perhaps she was even thinking that she should be the manager. He was a fool to think there was anything more to her feelings toward him. Not that he wanted more. She was pretty enough and she did stir a need inside him. But it was nothing more than lust.

  Well, perhaps a need for companionship, too, he admitted reluctantly. But that was all. He refused even to consider anything more. He’d been a fool once in his life, and he had no intention of repeating that folly. Love between a man and a woman was a romantic fairy tale. In reality, there was lust, affection, companionship if one was lucky. He’d had all that with Mary May. But love?

  Ben ignored the loneliness slicing through him. He had Sarah Ann, and he did believe in love between child and parent. It was, he thought, probably the only thing he truly believed in. Even his long-held belief in what was right and wrong had changed. An outlaw named Diablo had been responsible for that.

  Hell, he wished he hadn’t thought of Diablo. He didn’t want to remember the looks that had passed between Diablo and the woman who had since become his wife, didn’t want to think about the sacrifices each had been willing to make for the other.

  Ben closed his eyes against the memory. With disgust, he placed his half-filled glass on a table, quenched the oil lamps and left the room. He’d had little sleep last night. Perhaps tonight … but he doubted it.

  “Where’s Lady Lisbeth?”

  Sarah Ann looked around anxiously as their luggage was loaded onto a handsome coach.

  Ben wondered, too. He had seen only fleeting glimpses of Lisbeth since their meeting in the library two nights before. She hadn’t joined them for dinner last night, nor had there been any further mention of a visit to the loch.

  Ben didn’t really blame her. He had been insufferably rude, and his only excuse was one that made him cringe. He had been protecting himself, striking out because she had hurt his pride, because, for a time, he thought she might be trying to use him. He had no intentions of ever being used again—by anyone.