“You don’t look happy,” Drew said quietly.
She bit her lip. “Someone shot at Ben this morning.”
“Devil you say,” Drew said.
“And there was an accident in Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh?” His voice sharpened.
“Apparently after you left them, a carriage nearly ran them down.”
He whistled. “There was also an accident in Liverpool.” He was silent for a moment, and she turned around to look at him.
“You were there each time.”
“Bloody hell,” he exploded. “You don’t think—?”
“Of course not,” she said.
She saw a muscle working in his cheek. He was an attractive man with sandy hair and hazel eyes that reminded her a little of her own; in fact, she’d felt an odd familiarity the first time she’d met him. Almost as if she’d known him most of her life. She’d never felt that way about anyone before, had never felt comfortable with a man before, especially so quickly.
“And then there was Jamie,” she said in a small voice.
“That was an accident.” At her hesitation, he added, “Wasn’t it?”
“He was such a good rider,” she said.
“So are you, and you fell.”
“Because I … became distracted.”
“I don’t think I’ll ask you why,” he said dryly. “But surely, Masters can’t suspect you.”
She lifted one shoulder in bewilderment.
“Bloody bastard,” Drew swore. “I gave him more credit than that.”
“But I can understand—”
“Well, I can’t,” he said, then stopped as he looked at her more closely. “You haven’t, you aren’t …”
She looked at him miserably.
Drew sighed heavily. “No wonder he’s been glaring at me with such fury.”
The infernal tears started again. She tried to blink them back. Drew brushed a tear away, then he pulled her to him.
“He’s a bloody fool,” Drew said.
She stayed in his embrace a moment, then pulled away. “Thank you for riding Shadow.”
He nodded. “Anytime, love.”
“Drew?”
“Yes?”
“Check the saddle well before you mount.”
He had started to turn toward the horse, and he whirled back abruptly.
“Please, Drew.”
“All right, m’lady,” he said mischievously. “And I’ll try not to fall.”
She managed a small smile.
“And we’ll win.”
“I know,” she replied.
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You can always come to America with me.”
She shuddered.
He chuckled, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Ben knew it would happen. He was even prepared for it, or he thought he was.
Sarah Ann made directly for Lisbeth as the guests gathered for the start of the race. He had to follow.
Lisbeth bent down and greeted his small charge, but her gaze avoided him.
“I missed you this morning, Lady Lisbeth,” Sarah Ann said. “Papa and I both did. Annabelle, too.”
“You’ll have to tell Annabelle I’m sorry,” Lisbeth said with that gentle smile that always took his breath away. It was much more potent than Barbara’s dazzling smile, perhaps because it didn’t come as often or as easily. It certainly wasn’t coming his way at the moment.
He turned and watched the five riders. The spectators could see some of the jumps and part of the course, but not all. Ben felt the excitement build as the Scots carefully looked over Shadow and Torchfire.
Shadow was obviously nervous with a new rider on his back, but Ben grudgingly recognized that Drew Cameron was keeping him well under control. He was obviously an expert rider. What else did he do well?
“Look,” Sarah Ann said as she pointed to Drew. “I gave him a favor.”
“And what was that?” Lisbeth asked.
“He wanted my scarf, but I gave him a kiss instead. To help him win.”
“I think that’s much better,” Lisbeth said. She cast Ben a quick glance, and he noted the coolness in her. Her face was tense, and he didn’t know whether it came from apprehension about the race or his earlier veiled accusations. Her lips seemed to quiver a moment, but then she turned away, toward the horses, toward Callum, who was to announce the start.
“Hold me up,” Sarah Ann demanded, and Ben swung her up onto his shoulder.
Lisbeth took several steps toward one of the Carmichael boys.
Ben couldn’t blame her. He had hurt her, probably irreparably if she were innocent. He knew what distrust did to people, and he had torn to shreds that fragile beginning of trust—and intimacy—they’d shared.
He kept telling himself it was because of Sarah Ann. He couldn’t take chances with her life. But he wasn’t sure that was completely true. Distrusting was a hell of a lot easier than trusting.
“Look!” Sarah Ann exclaimed.
The horses were off, pounding across the ground. They reached the first jump, and suddenly appeared to be flying through the air as they all cleared it. He’d seldom seen better horsemanship than that of the riders in this race. On Shadow, Drew leaned close to the animal’s neck, becoming as one with the horse, as he soared over a six-foot fence, then a brush hazard. Then the horses and riders disappeared from view and the crowd grew quiet, waiting.
Reluctant appreciation filled Ben. He looked at Lisbeth, wondering what he would see on her face. He found her looking at him, sad puzzlement marring her features. She should be feeling excitement, victory. And he had robbed her of it. He felt as if he’d destroyed something precious, and at that moment he hated himself.
Someone shouted, signaling that the horses were coming into the final furlong. Ben saw Lisbeth force a smile as Shadow lengthened his lead, flying over the last hazard with space to spare, Torchfire behind him, and the other three horses trailing.
And then it was over, and she was accepting congratulations.
“He’s all ye said and more,” Carmichael said, approaching her. “And I’ll be going home poorer. Ye wouldn’t be thinking of selling him, would you?”
Lisbeth shook her head. “But he has a brother—a yearling—that might be for sale. It will be up to Mr. Masters most likely.” With her back stiff but a smile pasted on her face, she walked over to Shadow. And Drew Cameron. Both were surrounded quickly by a crowd of people.
Ben felt that he no longer existed for her.
“It was my kiss,” Sarah Ann said to him.
He suddenly remembered she was still on his shoulder and set her down. “What, Sugarplum?”
“Drew won because of my kiss,” she said, obviously annoyed that she had to remind him.
His fingers closed around hers. “Of course,” he said.
“Kisses are magic.”
He remembered a particular few recent kisses. “Aye,” he said. “They are.” But all the magic was gone, and all he tasted were the bitter ashes of regret.
The victory should have meant everything. It didn’t mean anything.
Why did she keep caring?
Lisbeth accepted congratulations, giving the credit for the breeding to Jamie and the old Marquess, and the riding to Drew Cameron. She looked for Drew, but after dismounting he’d disappeared.
So had Ben.
She and Callum walked Shadow to the stables after the guests had left for the manor house.
Callum gave her as much of a smile as he ever quite managed. “We showed them, Lady Lisbeth.”
“So we did,” she said. “You’ll be able to find a position anywhere now.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked at his weathered face. “I’m not sure Mr. Masters will keep the horses. I heard his petition’s been approved.”
“It isn’t right,” he said. “These are Calholm horses. The old Marquess put his heart into them.”
“So did Jamie,” Lisbe
th reminded him.
Callum muttered something under his breath, and Lisbeth looked at him quizzically.
“Lord Jamie dinna care,” Callum said. “He planned to sell them.”
“He never said anything to me about it.”
“Because he knew ye would object. Lord Jamie never did like opposition. He would have gone ahead and sold them, like Lady Barbara wanted. Like the new master will do,” he added bitterly, his mouth tightening.
The thudding in Lisbeth’s heart almost drowned out everything else. “How do you know?”
“I heard yer Jamie talking to Lady Barbara.” His voice was grim and his eyes cold. “I should not ha’ said anything, but ye believe too easily.”
He walked away, then, toward the stables, leaving her stunned. Ye believe too easily.
Jamie and Barbara. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe Jamie would sell his heritage, break his promise to his father, deceive her.
She’d lived with Jamie three years. She’d conceived a child with him.
But he never told you he loved you.
Her mind was going in circles, trying to remember fragments that might reveal truths. Jamie was a good horseman, a superb horseman. His father, he’d told her, put him on a horse before he could walk. John Hamilton valued that skill above all else.
But Jamie had never fed the horses tidbits of apples and carrots, had never stayed to talk to them, or curry them or cool them down. He’d always tossed the reins to the grooms and walked off.
She had been the one the Marquess spent hours with, talking about bloodlines and racing. Jamie had always found an excuse to leave.
Jamie. Always polite. Always proper. Always doing what his father wanted. And the Marquess had wanted his sons to have sons.
Lisbeth hadn’t know what passion was, what desire was, until a few days ago. Jamie’s lovemaking had been quick and efficient, though he had not been unkind, and she had believed their relations quite normal. She’d only been grateful that it hadn’t been the onerous act her mother had described. She’d wanted to love Jamie, seeing in him what she wanted to see.
Had she done that again with Ben Masters?
Or could she believe Callum? Why would he lie about Jamie?
Lisbeth’s head was swimming. She felt the earth moving under her, shaking her very foundation. She had to grab the door of a stall to keep her balance. Was her life all make-believe, as it had been when she was a child and she’d buried herself in books to escape the hatred in her home?
She had trusted Jamie. She had started to trust Ben Masters. She had given part of her soul to him. But he thought her capable of murder.
She couldn’t go back to the manor. She couldn’t face the departing guests, face Barbara who might have seduced her husband, face the man she had believed she loved.
A sense of urgency—even desperation—gave her the strength to handle the heavy tack, and she saddled a horse that hadn’t raced. She found a stool and used it to mount, then galloped from the stables toward the castle ruins on the loch.
Sarah Ann was the perfect lady as she said her goodbyes to the departing guests, and they responded in kind, clearly charmed.
Ben knew his own farewells were neither as charming nor well received. He sensed the continued wariness—and disapproval—of his new neighbors. He didn’t blame them. Calholm belonged in the hands of the Hamiltons, not some upstart American pretender.
Several families were planning to stay the night, including Drew, whom he could have done without. But Drew lived in Edinburgh, at least a day’s ride away, and Ben couldn’t very well throw anyone from a house he didn’t yet own. Would never own.
“Papa?”
Ben stooped down beside Sarah Ann in the now-empty hall. “Sugarplum?”
“Can I ride Pep’mint?”
“I think it might be better if you said hello to Annabelle,” he said. “She must be very lonesome.”
Sarah Ann immediately looked stricken, and he felt like a devil for manipulating her.
“Pep’mint’s probably lonesome, too,” Sarah Ann said.
“But he hasn’t been locked up in your bedroom all alone this morning,” he reminded her.
Sarah Ann thought about that for a moment, her desire obviously warring with responsibility, and he’d already discovered she had a stubborn streak where responsibility—or what she construed responsibility to be—was concerned.
“Poor Ann’belle,” she said, slurring the word, and Ben knew she was sleepy. And that he’d won this particular skirmish. Once he got her to her room, she would play with Annabelle, then he would tell a story, and those eyes would close for an hour or so. Perhaps then he could get some answers from Drew Cameron.
Drew wanted to punch the bloody hell out of Ben Masters.
Drew cared for few people, and Lisbeth was one of them. The first time he’d seen her he’d admired the spirit in her; mainly, he thought, because his own spirit had been all but beaten out of him.
He’d learned not to care for a bloody damn thing. He was the only child of an earl, who had all but bankrupted his own estate so Drew wouldn’t inherit anything. He hadn’t known why his father had hated him until he’d discovered he wasn’t a Cameron in blood, only in name.
Bastard, his father had called him. The only reason he carried his father’s name was because the earl had been too proud to publicly declare he couldn’t father a child of his own, that his wife had been an adulteress.
Drew had paid for those two facts all his life.
It hadn’t been until four years ago, though, that he’d discovered the details, when his father—on his deathbed—had called him a bastard and had made certain he’d never get a penny of his money.
By then, he hadn’t cared. Or maybe he had. His father had made his mother’s life hell, and she’d collapsed under it. She might have loved him once. He couldn’t remember. But if she had, his father’s hatred had drained her until she became only a shell, drinking to survive. Drew had been sent away to various schools, and greeted with invective on the few occasions when he returned home.
Rebellion had been his refuge. His revenge. He’d been dismissed from more schools than he could remember despite the fact that he had what most headmasters said was a brilliant mind. He’d gambled, stolen, and whored. His only interest was sports: riding, boxing, swordsmanship, shooting. He excelled at all of them. Violence became an outlet for the pain of rejection.
Then at one school, a teacher had taken an interest in him. He’d been a patient, gentle man who smiled at Drew’s barbs, invited him to his room to talk, and treated him like a person of worth. Samuel Bascomb had briefly drawn the best from him.
But then Bascomb died, and he was alone again. He had learned one thing, though: that charm was more productive than bitterness. He learned to mask his uncertainty and hurt and anger with banter. He armed himself with indifference and made an art out of aimlessness.
He was one of the most worthless things in the world: a young titled gentleman with no money and no prospects. He could always marry wealth. There were numerous wealthy American misses on the marriage market, ready to trade fortunes for a British title. Some of his friends had already followed that course. He couldn’t, though. He’d already sold most of his soul to the devil; he was going to preserve what little was left.
But he cared about Lisbeth. She had the strength he should have. Hell, he’d met her father, her oafish brothers. He didn’t understand how she’d survived intact. But she had, and by God, no one was going to hurt her again.
Not if he had anything to do with it.
One of the grooms told Ben that Lady Lisbeth had taken the road north to the loch. No one knew where Andrew Cameron had gone.
Ben wondered whether he would find them together.
Sarah Ann was sound asleep, and both Annabelle and Henry were with her. He’d asked Effie to stay with her, too, and had added two pound notes to secure the promise that she would not leave
the child alone.
He saddled Bailey and led him from the stables, following the loch road in search of Lisbeth. He had to have answers. And he had to tell Lisbeth he and Sarah Ann would be leaving Scotland.
Ben saw her horse before he saw her. It was grazing just outside one of the walls. He dismounted, left his horse with the other, and walked to the chapel.
Lisbeth was on her knees, in front of the chapel. The sun shone down through the holes in the roof and seemed to shed a halo around her auburn hair, now wrapped around her head in braids. It was a severe style, but she looked lovely. But then she always looked lovely to him, even when she was wearing boy’s trousers with a cap pushed down over her head.
He stood at the chapel entrance. Watching. Waiting. Strangely afraid.
As if she sensed his presence, she slowly rose and turned. No surprise flickered across her face.
He waited as she came toward him, pride stiffening her back, her eyes cool.
“I wanted to be alone,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” Her voice trembled slightly.
He felt at a loss. “Lisbeth …”
“Aren’t you worried I might stab you with the knife I have hidden in my dress? Or do you think I’m too cowardly for that? I have to get someone to do it for me?”
That was exactly what he’d implied earlier in the day, when he’d been so angry.
“Go away, Ben Masters,” she said tiredly.
Going away was what he should do. But he couldn’t move. And despite her words, the attraction was still strong between them. Tension reverberated in the air, heating it despite the cold wind. He saw her fighting it as he had fought it.
They both failed miserably.
“You shouldn’t be on that ankle,” he said stupidly.
“You shouldn’t be on that leg,” she retorted.
Their eyes were fastened on each other’s.
But the hurt in her eyes was deep, deeper even than the attraction that flashed there. A small sound, almost like a sob, escaped her.
She turned to go, but his hand caught her, holding her, and she didn’t try to break his grasp. She couldn’t have if she had tried. He knew his strength, and he wasn’t going to let her go. And she had too much innate dignity to fight him.
He wanted to apologize. Instead, he said the worst possible thing, and he knew it the moment he spoke the words. “Where’s Cameron?”
Marshal and the Heiress Page 25