Chapter Fourteen
Ben warily eyed the formal wear of the past Marquesses of Calholm.
Barbara’s ceilidh was in four days, and he had no appropriate clothes to wear, nor any desire to spend a fortune for clothes he might wear once or twice. Lisbeth had suggested that he investigate the wardrobes still containing clothes from the past masters of Calholm.
There were linen shirts and formal jackets, wide belts, and kilts made of Hamilton plaid. There were no trousers.
He took a kilt out of the wardrobe and studied the infernal thing. The butler stood by watching him. Worry that nothing would please tugged at the old man’s lips. Ben knew Duncan remained puzzled by his habits, especially his refusal of a personal servant.
“How do you wear one of these?” he asked, not sure at all he wanted to know. What he did know was that kilts were honored possessions. Barred after the ’45 by the English but revived in the early 1800’s, in part because of Walter Scott’s romantic novels, they were now part of Scottish national heritage. To wear American clothes would only make him more of an outsider. He didn’t want that for Sarah Ann.
So he eyed what seemed to be rolls of worsted like a Texan eyed a rattlesnake: with extreme and respectful caution.
“Lord Jamie wa’ not quite as tall as ye,” Duncan said, “but closer than the others.” He reached in and brought out another roll of red and blue plaid, handling it almost reverently as he unrolled all six yards of it.
“Ye must undress before I can fit it, sir.”
Ben was not a modest man. Modesty didn’t survive long in a war, nor on long days on the trail with other lawmen. Yet, something about trying on a damned skirt in sight of a stiff, formally dressed butler was uniquely humiliating.
But hell, if he was staying in Scotland, he’d damned well better get used to it.
The thought stopped him. He hadn’t realized it, but he really was considering staying.
Stunned, Ben dropped his trousers and underdrawers and submitted to the fitting. The butler showed him how the straps were fastened. The pleats went in the back, the “apron” in the front. Duncan eyed him from every possible angle and nodded. “It will suffice.”
Ben wasn’t at all sure. He felt naked. “What do you wear under it?” Clearly his longjohns would not do.
The man looked at him as if he’d just committed sacrilege. “Why, naught,” he said.
“Naught?” Ben hoped he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Naught,” the man insisted.
“Doesn’t it get cold?”
Duncan cracked a thin smile. “Scots do no’ get cold. They used to go into battle stark naked.”
“Must have disconcerted the hell out of their enemies,” Ben muttered.
Duncan’s smile grew a little wider. “Aye.”
Ben grinned. “I’ll remember that.” Then, moving to the nearby mirror, he looked at his reflection. He wondered whether he looked as ridiculous as he felt, whether he could ever parade in front of a hundred guests in this … skirt. But he had little choice.
He walked around the room several times, trying to gain some measure of comfort. A damned skirt. Worse, it was a dead man’s skirt. What in the hell was he doing?
What would Lisbeth think?
Why did he even care?
By his third turn, he was beginning to wonder why men ever wore trousers.
“Ye look like a Scot.” Duncan said in a reverent tone.
“Thank you,” Ben said solemnly. “Can you help me get out of … this?”
Duncan’s face wreathed into a smile. “’Tis fine to be of service, sir.”
The man was so clearly pleased to be of assistance, Ben felt regret, even guilt, at having rejected it so many times. He wondered whether he had hurt the other servants, as well. Still, Ben couldn’t imagine anything worse than to have a servant hovering over him day and night. “I thank you,” he said. “Not only for helping me with this but for tolerating an American.”
Duncan straightened. “’Tis an honor, an’ the young lass be a joy to this house. Maisie, Effie’s sister, is making her a fine gown for the ceilidh.”
Ben nodded. “What else do I wear with the kilt?”
“I’ll have everything ready for ye,” Duncan said.
Ben thought it might take more courage to wear those clothes at a ceilidh than it did to go against the Rebs at Vicksburg.
“My thanks again, Duncan.” He put on his trousers, feeling a great deal more like himself, wondering whether he would ever be comfortable as a Scottish gentleman.
Ben left the chamber, heading toward the kitchen, and Sarah Ann, whom he suspected was waiting impatiently for her afternoon ride. Annabelle, he hoped, was safely in the bedroom.
In the past few days, he’d made two important discoveries. First, Sarah Ann, like Lisbeth, was a born rider. Second, Annabelle was pregnant; her widening girth wasn’t entirely due to the cream she was eating, after all. He decided she’d probably gotten pregnant by one of the mousers on the ship during the voyage over.
Annabelle was enough of a trial. How would he cope with a host of little Annabelles? Ben could see it all now. A half-dozen kittens or more waging war on poor Henry.
Kilts. Swirling mists. A woman who constantly mystified him. Now, a pregnant cat. And not just any pregnant cat but Annabelle! He wondered whether life would ever return to that state he used to think of as normal. Probably not with a little girl around, especially one. with unbounded love for all creatures.
Or with Lisbeth around. He’d seen little of her these past days. She was out most of the time with Shadow and Callum, and he made no attempt to join them. She was too dangerous to his peace of mind.
Hugh was also avoiding him, he’d noticed, often disappearing for days at a time. The Scot, though, had held his tongue during the few meals they had shared. Once, Ben even thought he’d seen Hugh smile at something Sarah Ann said. It was a fleeting smile, though, quickly absorbed in the cynical mask the man usually wore.
Ben had grown curious about Hugh, having come to feel more than a little sympathy for him. It had to be difficult to expect so much and get so little. Once the Parliament officially declared Sarah Ann the heir presumptive to Calholm, he planned to have a long talk with Hugh.
Meanwhile, he had spent long hours riding the land and meeting the other tenants. He was reading a history of Scotland and books on husbandry. He’d gone over the estate books kept by Hugh, as well as the stable’s records provided by Callum.
Ben had to admit he was coming to understand Barbara and Hugh’s position. Calholm was barely making enough to pay the taxes; a killing storm during lambing season could bankrupt the estate, and the horses simply weren’t paying their way.
But there had to be a middle ground.
Ben found Sarah Ann, as he had thought, still in the kitchen with Fiona. Annabelle was snaking in between chair and table legs in search of any tidbit. Sarah Ann, already looking the proper horsewoman in her new riding dress, bounced off her chair when she saw him.
“I tried on Maisie’s dress, and it’s very bonny.”
“Bonny?” So she was beginning to use Scottish words.
“Oh, very bonny, Papa. I can’t wait for the party. Lady Barbara says everyone wants to meet me.” She frowned for a moment. “Except I don’t think Cousin Hugh likes me.”
“I think you’re wrong, Sugarplum. He just has other things on his mind.”
“I don’t think he’s very happy.”
The child never ceased to amaze him. She had a little fountain of insight within her.
“I don’t think so, either,” he replied.
“Maybe we can make him feel better.”
“Maybe.”
“Can we go riding now?”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
“Can we see Mrs. Crawford again?”
The visit to Mrs. Crawford’s home had been a great success, but then Sarah Ann took to almost anyone who showed her the slightest interest. She was
blossoming under the attention of everyone at Calholm, and she’d not had a nightmare for the past two weeks. Maybe soon she would even give up Mary May’s scarf.
“We will wear Mrs. Crawford out,” he said.
“Then can we go see Lady Lisbeth ride Shadow?”
Sarah Ann had been asking that question daily, and Ben had purposely ignored it. Lisbeth was like lightning to his thunder. They went together, but the mixture created an explosive storm. He wasn’t sure how many more storms he could survive.
But surely watching couldn’t hurt. “All right,” he said. “We best put Annabelle upstairs first.”
Fiona shook her head. “Annabelle and me, we be getting used to each other.”
“Are you sure?” he asked dubiously.
“As long as tha’ big lout of Henry is outside.”
Ben was afraid the cook was remembering that scene in the foyer several weeks ago. A twinkle in her eye affirmed it.
Sarah Ann was grinning, too. She was beginning to love this place, he sensed, and people were beginning to love her. His goal, when he’d decided to come to Scotland, had been to give Sarah Ann up if she found her true family—and a happy home. He was no longer sure he could do that. But neither was he sure he could stay forever in a country that wasn’t his.
But the decision didn’t have to be made yet. There were still mysteries to solve.
The quiet and peace of the past weeks, since he’d returned from Edinburgh, had almost made him believe the accidents had been just that: accidents. Almost, however, was not certain.
“Papa!”
His attention was being demanded.
“All right, Sugarplum. Annabelle can stay here with Fiona, and may the saints preserve them both.” He gave Fiona a wink. “We’ll go watch Lady Lisbeth.”
Lisbeth put Shadow through the usual routine. The horse no longer balked at any of the hazards, and she was delighted by the smoothness of his jumps. She felt she could fly over the moon with him.
Geordie was watching today. Callum meant to start him riding Shadow soon. He would be Shadow’s jockey for the Grand National if the training went well. She hated turning Shadow over to another rider. But a woman couldn’t ride in the steeplechase, and it was time Geordie got some experience.
Still, it would be like giving up a part of herself. Shadow’s training for the Grand National had been like a beacon in a storm of grief and loneliness and isolation. She’d taken a headstrong yearling and turned him into something magnificent. From now on, she would only be an onlooker.
Unless Ben Masters came to share her vision.
It always came back to him. She might train dozens of horses like Shadow in her lifetime, if Ben kept the stables at Calholm. She might have a purpose and a home then. She might get to help raise Sarah Ann, to delight in her childhood and watch her grow into a woman Calholm would be proud to call its Lady. She might even live long enough to come to know Ben Masters.
Although how she would ever live peacefully under the same roof with him, she didn’t know. As things were now, she could barely eat or sleep. A single thought or glimpse of him could make her furious or bewildered—or ready to fall into his arms.
Disgusted with herself, angry at having no control over her life or her emotions, Lisbeth gathered Shadow’s reins and prepared for the next jump. She had started her approach when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Ben and Sarah Ann riding into the meadow. It shouldn’t have mattered; she was used to people coming and going. But her attention shattered the instant she knew Ben was there, watching her.
Shadow sensed her mental lapse and lost stride, swerving at the last moment and stumbling, going down. Lisbeth threw her feet from the stirrups to clear the horse’s body and crashed into the heavy bush. Even as her body registered pain, she frantically looked for Shadow.
He had regained his footing and stood trembling on all four legs. Thank God and all His angels. She tried to stand, but pain shot up her left leg, and she fell back down. She saw Ben leaping from his horse and running toward her with no hint of a limp in his stride.
Callum reached her first.
She gave the trainer a reassuring smile. “I’m all right. See to Shadow.”
He turned and glowered at the approaching Ben Masters. “Daft man.”
“It’s not his fault,” she said. “You yourself often ride in when I’m jumping Shadow. I just … lost my concentration.”
“Better he go back where he came from,” Callum muttered.
“Callum, please see to Shadow. He’s nervous.”
Callum did as she asked, but he glared at Ben, who had reached her and knelt by her side. “Are you hurt?”
She grinned at him despite the pain. “As you said the other day, only my pride.”
He didn’t smile. Instead, his hands moved over her leg carefully and very gently. When he reached her ankle, she couldn’t help but cry out.
“It was my fault,” he muttered. “I should have known better.”
How could he? How could he know that he disrupted her every thought and shattered her peace of mind?
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own.” Her words faded to a choked whisper when he started to pull off her boot. The ankle was already swelling, and she held her breath until he finally tugged it off. The pain rolled through her and, for an instant, she thought she might faint.
Ben’s hands touched her stockinged ankle, as light and sensitive as any surgeon’s. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said. “Probably just a bad twist. Some cold water and tight bandages will probably fix it.” He then checked the bloody scratches on her arms and hands.
She thought about his easy dismissal of his own war injuries and felt like a total fraud. “It’s nothing. If you can help me up?”
“Aye,” he said but then he leaned down and scooped her into his arms.
“I can—”
“Nay, you canna,” he said, gently mocking her. “It is just starting to hurt.”
“How do you know?”
“Every soldier becomes a doctor of sorts,” he said.
Lisbeth surrendered. He wasn’t going to put her down, and, anyway, she liked being carried. She’d never been held this way before, not even when she was a child. Jamie had never carried her, nor showed her the tenderness Ben was showing her now.
She heard the beat of his heart, felt the whisper of his breath against her cheeks, felt the strength in his arms and chest as he cradled her against him. Her arms went up and around his neck—to help him, she told herself. But she knew the truth was she wanted to touch him.
He released her when he reached his horse, helped her stand on one leg, then assisted her into his saddle and mounted behind her. The feel of him pressed tightly against her was enough to make the pain in her leg fade. She found herself leaning back, burrowing against his chest.
Lisbeth had barely been aware of Sarah Ann riding silently beside them. But when she turned her head and saw Sarah Ann’s pinched face and her hands clasped tightly around the reins of her pony, her heart broke. The child had seen more than her share of accidents. And every one of them must remind her of her mother’s death.
Lisbeth suddenly felt cold, and snuggling against Ben Masters didn’t help.
When they reached the manor, Ben dismounted first and tied Bailey to one of the posts. He helped Sarah Ann down and tied her pony to another post, then returned to Lisbeth. He reached for her and lifted her again into his arms. Her arms went around him without thought this time. “I’ll take you inside and we’ll do something about that ankle.”
He carried her into the library and lowered her onto a sofa.
Duncan appeared immediately. “Lady Lisbeth? What happened?”
“I fell from Shadow. I only hurt my ankle a wee bit. It will be fine tomorrow.”
He looked stricken. “Lord Jamie …”
“It was nothing like that,” she said. “But we could use some chocolate for the lassie.”
Duncan turne
d around. Sarah Ann was hugging the door, her scarf clutched in her hand.
Ben swore softly, then quickly crossed over to the child. “We can use your help, Sugarplum,” he said. “Go ask Fiona for some bandages, some soap and water.”
Sarah Ann hung back. “Will she be all right?”
Lisbeth bit her lip at the fear in the child’s tone. “Of course I will,” she said. “’Tis just a small bit of inconvenience.”
Sarah Ann crept toward her. “You’re not going away?”
“Of course not, love.”
Sarah Ann’s eyes reflected disbelief.
“Come over here,” Lisbeth said, and Sarah Ann moved to her side. “Surely you’ve had a wee fall and were just fine.”
Sarah Ann nodded.
“And I imagine your papa was a bit of a fussabout then, wasn’t he?”
Sarah Ann smiled and took her hand. “He scolded me, too.”
“That was because he cared about you.”
“Why doesn’t he scold you?”
Ben stooped next to her. “I was just about to do that, Sugarplum. But no one likes being scolded in public, so you’d better run and get some linen for Lady Lisbeth.”
Sarah Ann hesitated, leaned down and kissed Lisbeth. “I’m glad you’re fine.” Then she whispered loudly, “He really doesn’t mean it when he scolds, you know,” before skipping from the room.
“So much for my authority,” Ben grumbled.
“She loves you.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“What happened to her mother?”
Pain crossed his face, and she wished she hadn’t asked. She couldn’t take the words back, though.
“A man killed her.”
“Why?”
“He wanted information.”
Something about the way he said it made her think he had been involved in some way.
“Sarah Ann wasn’t there?”
“No, thank God, but the woman who had been caring for her had to leave at the same time Mary May died. Everything and everyone she knew disappeared within a few weeks. That’s why she holds onto the scarf for dear life. It’s one of the few things remaining, that and her doll.”
Marshal and the Heiress Page 19