Marshal and the Heiress (33 page)

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?”

Her face went white with anger. “We're having a tryst, of course. He's hiding behind that stone wall over there. Or maybe he's lurking in one of the wells. You're a bloody fool, Ben Masters. Now let me go.”

Fury blazed in her eyes, and her body was stiff with indignation. She threw back her head with a contempt that ripped through him.

But he didn't let go. “Lisbeth, listen to me. He's been present every time there's been an … attempt on Sarah Ann and me.”

“And you think we've been conspiring—”

“No,” he said. “But Cameron—”

“Drew wouldn't,” she cut in.

“How do you know?” His voice was harsher than he intended, but that damn jealousy kept pricking at him like the razor-sharp point of a steel blade.

“Are all American lawyers so suspicious?”

“Only those shot at, driven over, and smashed by crates.”

Some of the anger left her eyes. “It wasn't me, and it couldn't have been Drew,” she said.

“Why?”

“He has no reason.”

“He has you.”

Her eyes opened wide at that, and there was such surprise in them that Ben knew he'd been wrong. There was nothing between Lisbeth and Drew Cameron, at least not as far as she was concerned.

“He's a friend, nothing more,” she said, her eyes still full of astonishment.

“Maybe he wants more.”

“No.” She shook her head. “His type runs more to actresses.”

Ben felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Andrew Cameron was more than a friend to her, he felt it in his bones, but he didn't doubt that Lisbeth believed what she was saying.

“You didn't think—?” Lisbeth stopped in mid-sentence.

“I didn't know
what
to think,” he said dryly. “I'm used to shooting back when I'm shot at. I tend to get angry when I'm ambushed.” It was a partial explanation and he didn't realize what he'd revealed until she spoke.

“Are you shot at that much?”

Ben was silent. He owed her an explanation. But that meant even more explanations, and he didn't know whether he was ready to reveal his past or not.

“Keep your secrets,” she said. “I don't want to hear them.”

“Lisbeth.” Her name was soft on his lips, almost pleading.

“I don't know who you are, or what you are,” she said. “I thought I knew.” He saw her swallow hard, then she continued. “You're a chameleon, Ben Masters. You slide in and out of roles. Well, now you have Calholm. Take joy in it.” The anger in her voice startled him into letting go of her hand, and she backed off as if he were a rattlesnake. “The old Marquess gave me Shadow, and I hope you won't try to claim him. I'll be leaving Calholm as soon as possible.”

“No,” he said. “Calholm is your home.”

“Not any longer. Perhaps it never was,” she said. “It was a refuge, but never a home.”

Ben moved forward, and she backed up.

“Don't,” she said. “Don't come near me.”

She was all defiance despite her trembling lips. Her hazel eyes were wide enough to swallow him. But she was against a wall, and when she tried to back up, she met its resistance. She looked like a fawn caught in the light of a torch.

A shiver shook her body, and he remembered her shivering at other times, in other ways, for other reasons. She had accepted him into her bed, into her life so totally and with such trust, and he'd thrown it all back at her today. He'd made a mockery of her trust.

Ben's hand came up, touching Lisbeth's face as lightly as he could.

She flinched as if his hand were a brand. “Don't,” she whispered and her tongue licked her lips. “Don't,” she said again, this time in a softer tone.

The very air sizzled between them. Her anger seemed to fuel the heat rather than cool it. And when he heard her whisper his name—“Ben … please …”—he was lost.

His head bent, his lips came down on hers, and he kissed her. She resisted for a moment, then her lips yielded under his. He wrapped his arms around her, and her arms crept up around him, gingerly at first, reluctantly, but inevitably, as if some force compelled it. Currents of hot pleasure surged through him, though he still felt her resistance, her denial of what they both wanted.

A low moan rumbled through him as her mouth opened hesitantly in response to his subtle pressure. Her body trembled against his, and he felt every quiver, felt the jolt that streaked through her when his own arousal pressed against her.

He knew he should stop—she was still too hurt, too angry—but he couldn't. He wanted to convey something to her for which he had no words. The hell of it was he didn't even know what he was trying to say. Desire? Need? Love?

Another sob escaped her, and it went straight into his soul. He closed his eyes, and anguish coursed through him. Why did he hurt people he cared about? When had he stopped trusting so completely?

Despite the heat growing in his loins, Ben let Lisbeth go before he did anything even more despicable. He had made her want him, when he knew very well she didn't want any part of him.

He dropped his arms. “I'm sorry,” he said for the second time that afternoon.

She stared at him with those enchanting eyes. “Don't you trust anyone?” she finally asked.

After another long silence, he replied, “I haven't for a long time.”

“Because of Claire?”

He shrugged. “There are other reasons.”

“Sarah Ann's mother? You've never talked about her.”

He was silent for a moment, then said roughly, “She might be alive if she hadn't met me.”

“Might?”

“Would be,” he corrected. “I … stirred up something …”