Marshal and the Heiress (22 page)

“Damn,” he whispered, finally forcing his hand to relinquish its hold.

“I know,” she whispered back, surprising him.

She brushed a damp curl off her face, and slowly he stepped back.

“You're very pretty,” he said softly.

She wrinkled her nose. “I'm wet.”

“You're particularly lovely when you're wet.” His hand reached for the damp, wayward curl.

“And the mist ha' blinded you,” she said, but a smile played around her lips. “My sister-in-law is much prettier.”

“Depends on the beholder,” he said.

“I dinna think you were a man for compliments.” Her brogue was deepening again.

“I'm not,” he said. “I don't say them very well.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I think you say them very well.”

Their eyes held, and he felt suddenly lost. He was like a schoolboy with his first love. And she was a woman he didn't entirely trust. He wanted to, but the lawman in him knew about human greed. He'd seen plenty of disarming murderers, charming thieves, and smooth swindlers.

He didn't really believe Lisbeth was involved in the recent accidents, but he simply couldn't take chances where Sarah Ann was involved.

His smile faded and he saw a frown flicker across Lisbeth's brow. There was nothing he could say to her so he busied himself with tethering the horses to a tree.

“Did children live here?” Sarah Ann asked Lisbeth as she stared at the ruins with fascination.

“Many, I ken.” Lisbeth untied the picnic basket. She carried it in one hand and took Sarah Ann's hand in the other, while Ben took the little girl's free hand.

Ben considered the picture they made. Anyone would think the three of them had always been together. An unfamiliar ache settled in his chest. He was thirty-five years old. He'd never thought he'd have a family, not after the war. He hadn't missed it, because he hadn't allowed himself to think about it. He'd taken satisfaction in his freedom, in his independence. Only now was he realizing what he'd missed. What Sarah Ann was missing without a mother.

He didn't want her to lack for anything, especially not a mother's love. The fact that Sarah Ann had so taken to Lisbeth proved she needed it.

He wasn't sure, however, whether he could ever trust a woman again … and especially one who wanted something from him.

Claire.
His fiancée who had eloped with another man when she learned he might lose a leg. Claire had vowed eternal love when he'd ridden off in a tailored captain's uniform. But her face had paled when she'd seen him in the hospital, consumed with fever, his face rough with beard, and his forehead wet with the sweat of pain. She couldn't leave fast enough. Then he'd received the note …

He hadn't lost the leg—mainly through sheer force of will and his refusal to allow the surgeon to amputate—but he left the hospital with a bad limp and an abiding suspicion of all women. Until Mary May had sneaked her laughing way through his defenses. But then she too was gone, knifed to death.

And now there was Lisbeth, who made no secret of the fact that she had dreams for Calholm. He would be a fool to subject himself to another betrayal. And he would be a poor father, indeed, to subject Sarah Ann to another loss.

They reached the partially standing wall, and Lisbeth released Sarah Ann's hand to lead the way through a break in the pile of stones.

“This was the gatehouse and outer wall,” she said. “The cannon balls that were used in razing it are still here. Over yon is what's left of the castle and its towers. Farmers have carried off many of the stones for their houses and walls. Little is still standing.”

Sarah Ann disengaged her hand from Ben's and stared at the ruins in wonder. He wasn't surprised. As a boy, he would have loved these piles of stone and their legacy of battles.

Sarah Ann started walking toward the stone wall, and he trailed behind her. Lisbeth stopped them.

“There are several wells. Be careful,” she said, pointing out depressions in the ground. “Part of the chapel is still standing,” she said. “The chapel and one of the towers are all the original buildings that remain.”

Sarah Ann took Ben's hand again and pulled him toward the ruins. Lisbeth stayed close. Too close. He was aware of the scent of flowers, of femininity, of the temptation to draw her into his arms. He kept his eyes on Sarah Ann, as much to keep them off Lisbeth as to watch his daughter, who was obviously being careful.

His leg was beginning to ache, as it did when he walked too long, or when the weather was about to change. Sarah Ann stumbled ahead, letting go of his hand. As he reached for her, a sharp, almost blinding pain shot through his leg and suddenly it failed him. He started to fall. His hand swung out and caught Lisbeth.

They went tumbling down together. He twisted so he would hit the ground, and she landed on top of him with a gasp of surprise.

His first thought was,
Not again!
He was only too aware of the number of times he'd ended up on his back in Lisbeth's presence. First in the carriage, then in his bedroom, in the manor entrance, and now here.

“Damn, but this is becoming a bad habit,” he muttered.

She chuckled, and the sound reverberated against him.

Her face was inches from his, and her laughter faded as she took note of the look in his eyes. She moved slightly, but that only made things worse. He groaned.

She stilled. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” he said.

“That should be easily remedied,” she said. “Men seem to have a great deal of it.”

“That was cynical.”

“Was it?” she asked innocently as she moved—carefully—from atop him.

“Are women immune, then?”

“From pride?” She righted herself into a sitting position, her hand straightening the hat that had shifted so the feather hung down in her face.

“Aye.”

“Ye be learning the Scots speech.”

“And ye dinna answer my question,” he mocked.

“And I don't think I will.” A grin spread across her face as she regarded him mischievously.

Ben was suddenly aware that Sarah Ann was peering at them, with something close to jealousy in her eyes.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked.

“What?” they both said in unison.

“Lying there.”

He traded glances with Lisbeth, then wished he hadn't. Shared amusement turned into heat, raw, hungry heat. She was the first to drop her gaze. She rose gracefully, then held out a hand to him.

Ben hesitated. He could get to his feet by himself, but only very clumsily. But if he took her offer of help, he might well bring them both down again.

“I'm strong,” she said, “unless, of course, I'm taken by surprise.”

He took her hand then and stood.

“I'm hungry,” Sarah Ann wailed suddenly.

It was only then that both Ben and Lisbeth became aware of the basket lying on the ground, its contents spilled over the rocks. She'd dropped it when they fell.

They scrambled to save what they could. A container of tea was intact, as was a pot of jam. The fresh bread was salvageable as were several scones. The meat pies were a total loss.

“We'll make do,” Lisbeth said, taking quick steps toward the remnants of the stone chapel.

Ben followed, his leg complaining all the way. His pride
had
been hurt. He'd been able to ignore the leg for the past five years, mainly because he'd ridden most of the time and had been able to limit his walking. But the past several weeks had proved he couldn't ignore the weakness. If he did, he might endanger Sarah Ann. Now Lisbeth knew how weak it was, that he really was a cripple.

Cripple
. Claire had called him that in the note she'd left.
I'm sorry. I can't marry a cripple.

He'd fought that image. Perhaps that was why he'd started marshaling. The job had given him back his self-esteem as well as allowed him to pursue a personal quest, one that had ended only months ago.

“Ben?” Lisbeth's voice was soft, questioning. They had reached the entrance to the chapel, an opening without a door. He entered. There was only a partial roof. A stone altar stood at the far end; no other sign remained that this had once been a place of worship.

But the walls cut the wind as well as the dampness.

The stone floor was broken, and he walked cautiously. He was damned if he was going to take another spill. They had reached the middle of the room when the sun suddenly hit the opening in the roof and sent a splinter of light down to illuminate the altar.

“The light always shines on hat spot,” Lisbeth explained. “It's as if the builder planned it, even to the hole in the ceiling.” Her voice was soft, reverent.

“Have you ever tried to find out anything about the families who lived here?”

“Yes,” she said. “I asked Jamie, and he told me a little. It's a very sad history. There was a shortage of sons, and many stillbirths. There are legends of course, but none associated with the chapel. And no deathless loves,” she added drolly.

She abruptly turned away from him. Locating two large stones that had fallen on the floor, she sat on one, gesturing for Sarah Ann to join her. Ben sat down on the stone floor, stretching out his leg and taking pleasure in watching Lisbeth.

Sarah Ann's eyes also followed every movement Lisbeth made as she served their repast. Ben would have sold his soul at the moment for a cup of strong American coffee, but at least the tea tasted good and warmed him.

Sarah Ann's momentary flash of jealousy having disappeared, she proceeded to ply Lisbeth with questions about the castle and people who lived in it. What happened to the roof of the chapel? Why would anyone hurt a church? Why was there a battle? Why did men kill each other?

The last question was one Ben himself couldn't answer though he'd participated in a war. He'd known why he fought. He'd believed in the Union. He'd thought he believed in the right cause, until he'd discovered his enemies thought the same and every bit as deeply. And one of those enemies had risked his life and surrendered his freedom to save him. He'd never been so arrogant again as to believe he was the only one to know right and wrong.

He listened as Lisbeth haltingly tried to answer the questions, inviting new ones as a reward.

“I ken it's all very confusing, and I don't understand it myself,” Lisbeth said slowly. “Sometimes people believe in something so strongly that they feel they must fight for it, or they need to protect something or someone they love.”

“Like Calholm?” he asked softly.

Lisbeth looked startled. “Like Calholm,” she said. “And like Sarah Ann.”

“The man who killed my mother,” Sarah Ann said. “Was he protecting someone?”

Lisbeth turned helplessly toward Ben. She hadn't realized Sarah Ann had been listening carefully, and understanding so much.

He scooped up Sarah Ann and held her in his lap. “Sometimes, Sugarplum, people are also greedy. And they don't care who they hurt as long as they get what they want.”

Sarah Ann huddled against him. Her small body seemed so slight that his heart ached for her. “I'll never let anyone hurt you,” he said. “I promise you that.”

She pressed closer to him. He wished they hadn't come here. He wished she hadn't been reminded of what she'd suffered. He looked over toward Lisbeth. He couldn't read her eyes. It was as if she'd thrown a silky veil over them.

Lisbeth turned away to face the altar. Then she stood and walked over to it.

Sarah Ann wriggled, apparently having been comforted sufficiently. She gave him a hug, smearing jam on his face, and he silently blessed the resiliency of children. He stood awkwardly and walked over to Lisbeth. One of her hands was clutched in a tight ball at her waist. He reached out and touched her, but she shied away.

“Lisbeth?”

“I used to be afraid,” she said softly. “It can be a terrible thing.” She was trembling, and he reached for her a second time, but again she flinched.

“I think it's time to go,” she said finally, still not looking at him. “I have to work with Shadow.”

She had shut him out, closed the door to that sweet intimacy they'd shared earlier. But had they really shared it? Had she detected his suspicion? Interpreted a warning?

Lisbeth walked back to where they had been sitting and quickly gathered what was left of their small picnic.

Why did he feel as if he'd lost something? When it was something he'd never actually had.

Chapter Thirteen

From his second-story window Hugh Hamilton had watched Ben Masters, Lisbeth, and Sarah Ann ride out from Calholm. The sight didn't help his hangover one bloody bit.

His solicitor in Edinburgh hadn't been encouraging. John Alistair had a fine reputation, according to his solicitor, and his recommendation almost certainly meant the naming of Sarah Ann Hamilton Masters as heiress to Calholm.

Hugh felt sick inside. He had depended on this inheritance for the last two years, depended on it so much that he had accumulated a mountain of debts based on his prospects. He had absolutely no way of paying those debts now; what small reputation and pride he had left would disappear.

The simple truth was he didn't have the funds to fight Ben Masters, and no solicitor would take such a risky case without some assurance of being paid.

His luck was just rotten, had been since he was a boy, the only son in a family already depleted of everything but title. His father had shot himself when he'd lost everything in an ill-advised investment, lending even more indignity to the family name. He and his mother had been passed around from relative to relative, and he was sent to inferior schools by long-suffering relatives.

But he had learned charm—beggars often did—and his good looks made him a sought-after guest if not quality husband material. He always enlivened a party with sophisticated chatter. God, how he hated what he had become during those years. And then two years ago, the eldest Hamilton son—Barbara's husband—died. With the younger son long missing and the current heir—Jamie—without children, he became next in line to inherit. He had been invited to Calholm for a hunt when Jamie had died, and suddenly his prospects were bright.