Marshal and the Heiress

by Potter, Patricia;

  “It’s nothing,” she said, then added with a quick grin, “Perhaps tomorrow … I’ll be a wee stiff.”

  He still hesitated, and she wondered whether there was another reason for his reluctance.

  “My leg … it’s not very …” he began.

  She remembered his fiancée then, remembered the bitterness in his voice as he’d told her about the woman who didn’t want a cripple. Ben Masters was anything but a cripple. He possessed a strength that defied the weakness in his leg.

  “It does not matter,” she said.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled off his longjohns. It was immediately clear to her that his leg had been nearly ripped apart. Ugly scars covered nearly every inch of it from just above the knee to the ankle. Her fingers gently ran over the scars, wishing that she could go back in time and take away some of the pain he must have felt. She was awed by the stubbornness and will that must have been required to regain the use of the leg.

  Ben was tense, as if waiting for her disgust.

  She leaned down and put her cheek against the scars. “How did it happen?”

  “A place called Vicksburg,” he said. “Shrapnel from a cannonball.” He paused. “I would have died on the battlefield if a Reb hadn’t stopped to give me water and stop the bleeding.”

  “A Reb?”

  “A Confederate soldier. My enemy.”

  Something in his voice made her ask, “You knew him?”

  “Not then. He was captured because he’d stopped to help me, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I looked for him for years.”

  “Why?”

  “I owed him,” Ben said simply. His hand holding hers tightened.

  “Did you find him?”

  “A few months ago.”

  She couldn’t imagine a man searching for years to thank someone. Now she understood why he’d come to Scotland with Sarah Ann. Not for himself but for Sarah Ann, for his sense of duty. She had never met anyone like him, hadn’t known anybody like him existed.

  Lisbeth moved against him, and she felt his immediate response. “You are a very unusual man.”

  He chuckled, and she felt every rumble through the only scrap of cloth remaining between them: her chemise.

  “Unusual? Usually I’m called hardheaded by the kindest of people.”

  “I think I like hardheaded,” she said.

  “And I think you have some of that quality yourself.”

  “I do,” she said proudly.

  He leaned down and kissed her, and without further hesitation, he lifted her chemise over her head. Then there was nothing between them to prevent their bodies from touching. She felt his arousal, and the yearning inside her turned exquisitely painful.

  He pressed her down gently against the mattress, and slid his hand to the triangle of auburn hair between her legs, his fingers soothing and searching, creating shock waves of sensation. His mouth came down on hers. There was little gentleness now, just hard, driving need that fired her own. Her body arched toward his in instinctive demand.

  He raised himself, just enough so that his manhood touched the triangle he’d stroked. He moved slightly, probing, exciting, teasing until she was almost crazy with need for him.

  Her arms went around him, drawing him to her, into her, and she felt billows of delicious sensation surge through her as he probed deeper and deeper. Slowly, sensuously, until she was crying with a need she’d never experienced before. His movements quickened. Feelings, exquisitely intense, built one upon the other. Her own body was reacting in new, instinctive ways, dancing to the beat of his. Giving, taking, wrapping around him.

  “Lisbeth.”

  It was more a moan than a word as suddenly the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors and cascading sensations. She felt a warm fullness, then quivers of reaction. The urgency faded, but a honeyed sweetness remained as Ben lowered himself and turned slightly so he lay next to her, their bodies still touching, still intimate, still trembling from the splendid journey.

  She felt his heart beating. His breath still came in small pants. His arms surrounded her, cradled her, protected her. She loved his nearness, the way her body curved so easily into his.

  His hand moved down to hers and clasped it. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Your leg?”

  “What leg?” she replied, still lost in the magic.

  His grip on her hand tightened.

  “You’re beautiful, Lisbeth.”

  “No—”

  “Dammit, you are. Who made you think otherwise?”

  She was silent. No one had ever called her beautiful before. Not even pretty. Her brothers and father had always told her she was homely, too homely to bring about a good alliance, which was the only thing girls were good for. She had been made to feel worthless from the day she was born.

  Jamie had wanted her, though. A lord. A future marquess. Even her father had been impressed enough to give her a good dowry. Yet even Jamie had not called her beautiful. Only Ben. How little she still knew about him. How much she wanted to know.

  “What happened when you found the man you were seeking?” Somehow, she sensed that man was the key to one of the mysteries surrounding Ben.

  He suddenly tensed, remaining silent.

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “And well?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Do Americans always say so little?”

  “Yep.”

  She tried another subject. “Your skin is so dark. Are all Americans bronzed like you?”

  “You’re asking as many questions as Sarah Ann,” he protested, but his tone said he didn’t really mind.

  “Because I want to know everything about you.”

  “There’s very little to tell.”

  She twisted her head to meet his gaze. “You are a very complicated man.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. I don’t know anyone else who would search for years to find someone who had done them a favor, or would take responsibility for a child who wasn’t his own.” With a smile, she added, “Or for Annabelle.”

  “You have Henry,” he countered. “I don’t know anyone who would adopt a hunting dog that doesn’t hunt.”

  “Henry needed me.”

  A gentle silence ensued. She dropped her gaze and rested her head against his chest. He cradled her, and she was stunned at the contentment—and joy—she felt simply from being held. How could such a thing happen? She’d been so determined to make her own way after Jamie’s death. She’d ignored raised eyebrows and Barbara’s horror when she’d decided to continue raising jumpers, and especially when she started wearing trousers. She’d resolved to build something of her own. She’d defied convention and scoffed at Barbara’s obvious need for a man.

  Lisbeth had sworn she would never be like that, that she would never be dependent again.

  But, now, for the first time she knew how it felt to be a woman, a desirable woman. She knew how it felt to be touched as if she were a jewel.

  “Ben?”

  “Ummm?”

  “Is your name really just Ben?” she asked.

  He raised his head and looked at her, his blue eyes warm and sensuous and amused. The suspicion was gone.

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. But I told you, I want to know everything about you.”

  “Everything?”

  “Well, your name will do for the moment,” she amended hastily, fearing he might retreat from her again, that the suspicion might return.

  “It’s Bennett Sebastian Masters,” he said, kissing her lightly.

  “Bennett Sebastian Masters,” she mused. “It’s very impressive, but I think I like Ben.”

  “So do I.” His mouth curved up in that crooked smile of his.

  She wriggled against him, and she felt his arousal.

  “God help me,” he whispered.

  “In for a pence, in for a pound
,” she said.

  He didn’t chuckle this time. He laughed. The sound rumbled over her like benevolent thunder. God’s laughter. She’d always felt that way about storms.

  But she didn’t have time to explore that particular thought because he had moved back on top of her, and the sensations she’d felt a while ago paled in comparison to the conflagration that swept through them both.

  Chapter Sixteen

  What in the hell had he done? Ben asked himself as he changed clothes for dinner.

  He had felt like a boy earlier, had even found himself whistling. But then reality had played havoc with the euphoria he’d felt.

  He grew hard just thinking about the past couple of hours. And his heart constricted every time he recalled the warm, lazy passion in Lisbeth’s hazel eyes or the way she so trustingly wrapped herself around him.

  She was so honest with her responses that his suspicions had melted away. If someone intended harm to Sarah Ann or himself, it wasn’t Lisbeth. He would bet his soul on it. He had bet his soul on it. But problems remained, problems that might well make her hate him.

  Ben buttoned his linen shirt, shoved arms into a gray vest and a frock coat, and took a moment to straighten the cravat at his neck. A hell of a lot of clothes to wear just to eat. He hadn’t questioned that gentility as a child or young man, but after years of freedom on the plains he resented every last stiff, confining garment.

  He kept trying to think of everything but Lisbeth, of the realities he had to face. He still had difficult decisions to make. And he had to focus on the fact that someone still might try to permanently rid themselves of the Masters—father and daughter both. Indeed, he might have succeeded in putting Lisbeth in danger, too.

  Ben didn’t doubt he was only the second man to bed her. He hadn’t intended it to happen, and he’d taken no precautions to prevent creating a child. He was determined that it wouldn’t happen again, not as matters stood, not when he might well return to America.

  The door opened between his room and Sarah Ann’s, and she stood there in her favorite dress. Maisie had helped her with her bath and with dressing. “You look very handsome, Papa,” she said.

  “And you look ravishing,” he told her.

  Annabelle haughtily entered the room behind her, tail up in a fit of pique. “Annabelle doesn’t look happy,” he observed.

  “I think she knows we’re goin’ to leave her again.” A bit of wistfulness passed over her face. “Can’t we take her to dinner with us?”

  “You know she and Henry don’t—”

  “They really like each other,” Sarah Ann assured him. “Really. Lady Lisbeth said so.”

  “She did?”

  Sarah Ann nodded enthusiastically. “Annabelle needs a friend.”

  “She has you.”

  “An animal friend,” Sarah Ann insisted.

  Ben sighed. Annabelle didn’t look as if she needed anyone at the moment. Despite her natural scruffiness, she obviously thought herself a queen.

  “She’s lonesome.” Sarah Ann pressed her advantage at his silence.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Please. Lady Lisbeth—”

  “What about Lady Barbara? And Cousin Hugh?” He didn’t really give a flip what either thought, but neither did he wish to end up on the floor again.

  “Lady Barbara likes Annabelle. She said so.”

  Sarah Ann waited patiently, moving from one foot to another as she did.

  Annabelle had been on her best behavior. And she couldn’t stay in the room the rest of her life. Ben closed his eyes, remembering the horrific scene in the foyer: porcelain shattering, armor clanging over the floor, furniture tumbling about.

  But he couldn’t dash the hopeful expression on Sarah Ann’s face. “We’ll try it, but—”

  “She’ll be good. I know it.” She hesitated. “She feels like she’s been … in jail.”

  Jail. What did Sarah Ann know about jail? He narrowed his eyes. Had she heard him talk about Diablo? Or had she heard her mother say something?

  He decided it was best to ignore the comment. To ask was to invite questions he really didn’t want to answer. And she was just waiting to ask those questions. He knew it. She may not know what she was asking, but she sensed a new subject, a new adventure. Four years old, and she was as tricky as a forty-year-old.

  Well, he’d been clay in her hands long enough for one day. He wasn’t going to spend the evening answering questions.

  Ben bowed and offered Sarah Ann his hand. She curtsied, grinning, and took his hand. They left the room together, Annabelle prancing royally behind them.

  After Ben left her room, Henry demanded his share of Lisbeth’s attention. It was quite obvious to her that his displacement from her bed had wounded him deeply. He’d whined and mumbled, rolled onto his back with his legs awkwardly waving in the air and wriggled until she scratched his stomach.

  “You are an impossibly ridiculous dog,” Lisbeth told him. Henry growled in happiness. He loved praise. His legs waggled harder.

  “But then I’m ridiculous,” she continued. “I have you. I don’t need Ben Masters.” She kept telling herself that. She couldn’t need him. She couldn’t want him this badly.

  But she did. Her blood turned to molten lava as she thought about touching him again.

  Henry whined. She scratched his stomach absently. When had everything changed? When had Henry and the horses faded into the background of her mind, supplanted by Ben Masters?

  Ben and Sarah Ann. A man who made her senses sing and a child who made her yearn for one of her own. She wanted to tease a laugh from them, prompt a smile, drive away the ghosts still haunting both father and daughter. She grinned at such fanciful notions. But it was true. She’d rather receive a smile from the four-year-old cherub than ride Shadow to victory. And, God help her, she’d rather make love with Ben than do anything else on earth.

  “Darling Henry,” she said wistfully. “Why do you suppose your namesake took so many wives? Is love fleeting? Or is it merely lust?”

  Henry barked as if he approved of lust, or might like some himself.

  “You’re such a handsome lad,” she said. “We’ll have to find you someone.” For the first time, she truly understood the joy of mating. The joy and ecstacy and bewilderment. The longing and ache. The uncertainty and fear.

  The glory.

  It swelled in her as she recalled Ben’s every touch, every feeling he evoked in her, every emotion. She thought of those cautious blue eyes that had turned so warm.

  What would he be like at dinner? Cool and watchful as he usually was? Warm and teasing as he had been in her bed? Would she be able to keep from reaching out to touch him? Would Barbara realize what had happened?

  Full of hesitancy, Lisbeth finally rose from the bed and chose a gown for dinner, one she hadn’t worn since Jamie’s death. It was subtle and modest, nothing like Barbara’s gaily colored finery, but she knew the gray-green silk made the most of her eyes and hair. Barbara and Hugh would raise their eyebrows at it and wonder, but she didn’t care. She wanted to look her best, to pale as little as possible next to Barbara.

  She was still amazed that Ben preferred her. It was a miracle.

  Bennett Sebastian Masters. She allowed the name to roll off her tongue.

  Henry started pacing the floor, signaling that he had to go outside. She opened her bedroom door, knowing that Duncan would open the one downstairs. Effie should be up any moment to help her dress. God’s toothache, but she disliked dresses with buttons in back, which meant she hated nearly all of her dresses.

  Henry bounded out, down the stairs, barking as he went. He was in more of a hurry than usual. She started to close the door, and then she heard a crash. And another one.

  She winced.

  Then something else crashed, and she heard a screech that sounded as if it came straight from hell.

  Annabelle!

  A yowl. A child’s scream.

  Lisbeth opened the door and heard B
en’s firm “Annabelle,” then a string of curses that would have startled the devil himself.

  Oblivious that her hair was down, still mussed from lovemaking, and that she wore only a flimsy dressing gown, she limped toward the stairs. At the bottom step, her ankle gave way and she stumbled straight into Ben.

  The shock—and immediate physical reaction—kept her from moving for a moment. Then she was aware of silence. Complete, absolute silence.

  She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked around. The entire household had gathered in the foyer. Duncan had horror written all over his face. Effie stood, her mouth open in astonishment. Hugh and Barbara were looking on with dismay. Sarah Ann, eyes wide, watched everyone with great interest.

  Henry and Annabelle, oblivious to everyone, occupied the center of the foyer. Henry, stretched out, panted heavily. And Annabelle stood directly in front of him, either challenging him or claiming victory, Lisbeth wasn’t sure which.

  Annabelle’s back wasn’t arched though—a hopeful sign—and she wasn’t hissing at Henry. The armor had fallen again, and so had the fragile table that held the silver bowl designed for visitors’ cards.

  That was all she noticed before she felt every angle of Ben’s body and his heat singed her. She looked up at Ben, and saw amusement dancing in his eyes. God’s toothache, but she loved him when he looked like that.

  “Lisbeth!”

  There was something ironic about Barbara’s horrified cry; after all, Barbara had never been subtle about her own affairs.

  Lisbeth knew she should move. She was being held by a man in full sight of the entire household. But Ben made no attempt to let her go, and her own legs were none too steady for her to stand on her own.

  “Lady Lisbeth.” Hugh spoke in a righteous voice that Lisbeth just couldn’t take seriously.

  “I heard … noises,” she tried to explain, but it sounded weak even to her. What was she doing in the late afternoon dressed only in a dressing gown, with her hair tumbling down her back, and her face flushing brightly? “I was resting,” she added.

  Hugh narrowed his eyes and darted an accusing look at Ben. Barbara looked hurt. Sarah Ann looked interested.

  “I’ll carry you back up,” Ben said. “I think there’s been a truce of sorts down here,” he added, eyeing Annabelle and Henry. Annabelle had perched herself on Henry’s stomach and seemed to be grooming the big dog, who growled contentedly.