Marshal and the Heiress (30 page)

“I'll go up,” she said, relieved to have an excuse to leave. The room was suffocating, unbearable.

Lisbeth limped up the stairs. The pain in her ankle was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. Was Ben rejecting her because she had lain with him? Had she not lived up to his expectations? Had she been so inadequate? But then she remembered the fury she saw in his eyes.

Blindly, she stumbled to her own room. Henry wagged his tail so frantically and moaned so pitifully, she decided to take him to Sarah Ann's room with her.

“You be good,” she warned him, though her heart wasn't in the warning.

When she reached Sarah Ann's room, the little girl was standing on the bed in her nightgown, her red hair flowing down in tight ringlets. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I don't want to go to bed,” she said the moment she saw Lisbeth.

Lisbeth went over to her. “Why?”

“I just don't,” Sarah Ann said stubbornly. Annabelle, who had taken one of the huge pillows as her bed, eyed the dog warily but stayed put.

“All right,” Lisbeth soothed. “I'll stay here with you.”

Sarah Ann looked at her suspiciously. “You'll leave me, too.”

Lisbeth now understood—and sympathized. “Is that why you don't want to go to sleep? You're afraid no one will be here when you wake up?”

Now that she thought about it, Ben had put the child to bed each night. Had he stayed by her side until she went to sleep? It was a new side to the American. Lisbeth couldn't imagine another man being as devoted to his child as Ben was.

Lisbeth's fear when she was growing up was different from Sarah Ann's. Lisbeth had been afraid of her father, had not wanted him around. His anger would explode without warning, his fist would strike her for some infraction she didn't understand.

“I'll stay with you,” Lisbeth assured the child.

Sarah Ann brightened. “Will you?”

Lisbeth smiled. Sarah Ann's trust was like a balm to recent wounds. “Aye. I'm a bit lonesome, too.”

Sarah Ann sat down on the bed. The doll, Suzanna, was with her. Annabelle made a slight hiss of annoyance at being disturbed. Lisbeth sat down, too, and Sarah Ann cuddled into her arms. “I love you, Lady Lisbeth,” she said.

Lisbeth's heart turned to jelly. No one had ever said that to her before. Not even Jamie.

“I love you, too, Sarah Ann,” she said.

“I want you to be my mama.”

Lisbeth went absolutely still. She had no idea what to say. So she hummed a lullaby instead, a song one of her nannies had sung to her, until she felt Sarah Ann relax against her. In minutes, the child's breathing was soft and regular.

Lisbeth lowered her to the bed, then she lay down next to her, keeping an arm protectively around the child.

I love you.
Such incredibly sweet words. No pretense. No reservations. No doubts.

Not like Sarah Ann's father.

Ben suffered through the rest of the night until early morning, when the guests either retired to the rooms they'd been given in the manor or went home. He was left with Barbara, whose face was flushed with success, and Hugh, who stood in the library doorway with a glass in his hand.

He lifted it in salute. “Congratulations,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “The King is dead. Long live the new King.”

Barbara's flush deepened. “Hugh …”

Hugh silenced her with a look, then turned back to Ben. “I heard from one of our guests that Parliament is about to approve your petition. They couldn't wait to reveal the news.”

“Sarah Ann's petition,” Ben corrected.

“Don't be a hypocrite,” Hugh said. “You're going to benefit from this in no small way. Would you have come all this way otherwise?” His face was red with drink and anger.

Ben looked at Barbara. “Would you excuse us?”

She hesitated.

Hugh's angry expression faded. “It's all right, Barbara. I'm not drunk enough to hit him, and dueling went out years ago.”

Barbara went white, and she rushed from the room.

“Don't worry, Masters,” Hugh said harshly. “I'm not contesting your bloody petition. I don't have the money, and no solicitor would touch the case without it. I'll be leaving Calholm in a few weeks.”

Ben ignored the other man's hostility. “You told me Calholm could be run profitably. Did you mean it?”

Hugh narrowed his eyes. “Not without selling those horses off.”

“And the tenants?”

Hugh shrugged. “If sheep grazed the acres now being used for the horses, we could use more shepherds. It would make some sense to keep the tenants.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

“Where do all the impoverished go? To America. God knows I hate running away from debts, but now I have no way to pay them. Perhaps someday—”

“How much?”

Hugh hesitated. Ben could almost read his thoughts. Why did he want to know?

Hugh finally shrugged and said, “I suppose you might as well know, too. It's common knowledge and my creditors will probably try to collect from you.” He hesitated, then added, “Nearly five thousand pounds.”

“I'll pay them when the inheritance is settled,” Ben said.

Hugh stared at him. “Why in the bloody hell would you do that?”

“The Hamilton name is involved,” Ben said coldly. “I don't want Sarah Ann's inheritance tarnished.” That wasn't why at all, but he suspected it was an explanation Hugh would accept. He didn't want to explain his other reasons. Not yet.

Some of the petulance left Hugh's handsome face. His mouth worked slightly and he turned away, toward the window that looked out over the wide expanse of gardens.

Ben left without another word. He climbed the steps up to his room. Though the house was full, there was an eerie emptiness about it at this early hour of the morning. He wondered whether that was true of every large house, and whether one ever got used to it.

The door to Sarah Ann's room was closed. Ben opened it. A small flame flickered from an oil lamp in a corner, and he saw several forms in the feather bed. He finally made out Henry on the end, Annabelle curled between his two mammoth paws, and Lisbeth's arms around Sarah Ann.

Lisbeth was still dressed in her gown, and her curls had fallen from the twist laced with flowers. Petals lay spilled on the pillow. She looked fragile in the huge bed. Fragile, innocent, and so desirable.

He felt his loins ache again as he remembered their lovemaking, the incredible sweetness of it. Something he couldn't allow to happen again. But God, how he wanted it. Needed it.

Quietly he entered his own room. He undressed hurriedly, leaving only a shirt on his back, and poured himself a drink before sitting down on the bed and stretching out his leg, now aching from the night's activities.

Tonight, he hoped he had eliminated at least one of the potential dangers to Sarah Ann. He had thrown Hugh Hamilton a rather large, tasty bone, which should reduce at least some of Hugh's desperation.

And Lisbeth? Christ, he couldn't think logically about her. Especially when she slept in the next room.

He'd heard some of the words that had passed between her and Drew Cameron. He'd also seen the affection and intimacy between the two. Everything in him had fought against the idea of their being conspirators. But Cameron had been present both times Ben and Sarah Ann had been in “accidents.” Cameron and Lisbeth appeared more than friends. And Lisbeth stood to inherit more money if Sarah Ann died, perhaps even enough to support a stable or at least Shadow.

And maybe the accidents had been just that: accidents. Maybe pigs danced the waltz.

He finished the glass of whisky and placed his pistol under his pillow.

God, how it would kill him if he found out Lisbeth had plotted murder—and that his trust had been misplaced. Again.

Chapter Eighteen

Ben did not look forward to the grouse hunt. He'd hunted for food, but he'd never understood the allure of killing for sport.

Nevertheless, he took the shotgun provided by Duncan, mounted Bailey, and rode with the other men to a wooded area beyond the loch.

His eyes kept going to the ruins. Like the day he visited it with Lisbeth, mist rose from the green hills, enveloping part of the castle ruins and leaving the remainder to rise like a magical kingdom from the clouds.

Some of the guests had brought their dogs. Once the men were in position, the dogs would flush out the grouse.

Ben tried to be polite to the other hunters but he had little in common with them. They lived for sport, for social occasions, for the politics of their country. Several, he'd discovered, were in Parliament. He felt different, an outsider tethered to events he despised for the sole reason of securing a future for his daughter. He was beginning to feel more and more it wasn't worth it, neither for himself nor for Sarah Ann. He didn't fancy her having a life like Barbara's: empty, aimless. Lisbeth had done something with hers, but at the expense of convention, and he'd discovered few other women in Scotland took life by the tail as she did.

Damn, he wished he knew what was best. For everyone.

He had looked in on Sarah Ann before joining the hunters. Lisbeth and Henry had already left, but Lisbeth's flowery scent remained, filling him with a longing that was becoming entirely too familiar. A sleepy Sarah Ann gave him a lazy hug when he sat down on the bed and woke her. He hadn't wanted her to wake up and find she was alone. She still became frightened, still clung to her doll and the green scarf.

“Where's Lady Lisbeth?” Sarah Ann had asked sleepily.

“I think she had to go look after guests,” he'd replied, thinking it more likely that she'd wanted to avoid him. Well, he had done a good job of making sure she felt that way.

He'd thought about her all night, kept seeing the image of Lisbeth lying on the bed holding Sarah Ann. It just wasn't possible that she would be involved in the recent accidents.

He'd gone looking for her. He knew he'd hurt her last night and wanted to say something to her to make things right. But though he had searched for an hour, he couldn't find Lisbeth and finally gave up.

Now, he and the hunters arrived at the woods where a groom took the horses and the men divided into small parties. Ben was recruited into one with the Carmichaels.

“Are ye any good with that shotgun?” the elder Carmichael asked.

Better than good, but he didn't plan to show it today. He had no intention of killing birds on this cold Scottish morning. “I don't have much time for sport.”

“My lads are fine marksmen,” Carmichael said as he released his dog. The animal went straight into the bush, and in several seconds, the bush seemed to come alive as a flock of birds rose into the sky. The Carmichaels started shooting, while Ben watched. He heard shooting from other parts of the woods and saw birds flutter into the air and go down.

“Mr. Masters?” Carmichael said. “Ye have no taste for hunting?”

If only Carmichael knew how little taste he did have, and why. He'd been a hunter of much bigger game for much too long. At the same time, he knew he would be considered both odd and cowardly if he didn't participate. For Sarah Ann's sake?

But he couldn't.

“No,” he said abruptly. He was tired of trying to be something he wasn't. The decision that had been forming in his mind solidified. “I'm going back to the manor.”

Carmichael frowned, but then a new flock rose from the bush, and he muttered something about foreigners and went back to shooting.

Ben felt a sudden freedom. He started back toward the horses, cutting through the quarter mile of dense woods. Behind him, he heard the pounding of gunfire. For a moment, he was back in battle, back at Vicksburg, the thunder of cannon and rifle echoing in his ears, in his soul. Men were falling, crying out in surprise and agony.

He stopped, leaned against a tree, willing the memories to go away, but they were so real, so alive. Smoke. So much smoke. His troop was retreating. And then the pain, the overwhelming pain—and the thirst. He heard himself calling for water. He would die without water. He wanted to die.…

The images wouldn't go away. Neither would the noise. And then he heard a different sound and saw a movement not far from him. He started to lift his gun when a bullet hit the trunk a fraction of an inch from him.

While his gaze searched the woods, another shot kicked up dirt in front of him. He tried to blend into the brush. He couldn't expect help. No one would think anything of another shot. A yell for assistance might put other hunters in jeopardy.

He saw a movement, and his finger started to tighten around the trigger, but he hesitated. The figure was between him and the other hunters, and he might hit one of the innocent guests. He caught a glimpse of brown, but the shooter blended well into the woods. So did most of the hunters in their dark tweeds.

A dog barked, then something moved behind him, and the crack of another shot split the air, spitting up earth several feet away. The shooter could no longer see him, at least.

Dropping down onto the ground, Ben crawled to the left. Inch by inch he moved, keeping his gaze on the place where he thought the last shot had come from. If he could get between the shooter and the hunters, he might have a chance at his attacker.

He moved a dozen yards or more in a kind of circle. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. Whoever was out there was an experienced woodsman.

Sweat broke out on his forehead and his hands, despite the coolness of the air. Then he heard the crackle of a dry leaf. To his left. He moved the shotgun to fit into both hands and rolled to another position.

Another crackle. Then voices. Laughing, victorious voices. He looked back toward where he'd heard the first crackle. Nothing. The shooter was gone. Every instinct told him that. How long had it been? Ten minutes, thirty? He rolled into a sitting position, then stood upright, just as Carmichael and his sons appeared.