Marshal and the Heiress (34 page)

Lisbeth was silent a moment, then her brows knitted together in concentration. “You blame yourself for her death?”

He didn't say anything, but the air was pregnant with his regret, with the sorrow he'd never fully admitted even to himself.

“Is that why …?”

He didn't want to explain whys. He didn't even want to know the whys. What would it matter if he did? She had no reason to trust him again. And the only thing left for him to do was to leave. Go home to America, where he belonged. Make a decent life for himself and Sarah Ann, and do his best to forget Lisbeth Hamilton. A hopeless task.

Ben mumbled something about leaving her alone and being sorry, and he started to go.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Ben …?”

He turned back to her, and when he saw the look in her eyes, he could barely breathe. Her eyes—that startling hazel that continually seemed to change—were shining with hope, and the hope was laced with desire.

She said his name again, placing her hand flat against his chest in a soft caress. “Ben, I don't want you to go. I want …” Her words trailed off, her gaze searching his.

And in the next instant, she reached up, crooked a hand behind his neck to pull him down to her, and covered his mouth with hers.

Chapter Twenty

Before Lisbeth could catch a breath, Ben's arms were crushing her to him, he was lifting her off her feet, and his mouth was greedily devouring hers. She let him. And she let herself respond fully, without restraint. Not that he left her a choice.

It had been the doubt in his voice and in his eyes—the sadness, the remorse, the guilt—that had melted her heart. Suddenly, she had understood. He was afraid, even more afraid than she was, of losing yet another person he'd allowed himself to love. Either by betrayal or death, it seemed the women to whom he'd tried to give his heart had abandoned him. And he couldn't allow himself to trust that she wouldn't do the same thing.

It was a terrible thing not to trust. She knew. And she knew she had to show him that it could be different, that he could trust her. She had to show him, because she loved him and she always would. It terrified her, but she couldn't change it.

And so she gave herself over to his passion, and to him. She'd caught him off guard; he hadn't expected the kiss, and he hadn't been able to control his reaction to it. She didn't want him to control it. She wanted to know him. All of him. All the secrets he harbored, all the thoughts and feelings he rarely shared.

When he growled against her neck, trailing hot kisses down to her shoulder, she tilted her head to give him access. When his hands moved frantically over her, she helped him make his way through layers of clothing to find her breast. And when he lifted her skirts, his lips pressing hers against the wall, her body responded, seeking his.

Lisbeth felt herself sliding down the wall, until they were both on the ground, his jacket discarded, and his hand was fumbling at his trouser fastenings. She found herself assisting him, urgency pushing both of them. And then he was free.

“Lisbeth,” he said raggedly, as his hands pulled down her pantalets and his hands caressed and seduced her body until she was raging with need for him. She pulled him down, unwilling to wait, and she felt his heated flesh against hers. His body was tense, almost rigid, but then he entered swiftly, his need filling her in a burst of desire.

She was lost, and she knew she would never be whole again without him. Desperation mixed with passion fueled her response as he moved deeper and deeper into her, becoming an integral part of her, reaching, it seemed, to her very soul.

She heard herself cry out as their bodies moved in a primitive rhythm which increased in intensity and speed, then the cry was buried in her throat as his lips crushed down on hers in fierce possession. The rhythm of their bodies became a primitive, erotic dance, an exploration into rapture, into ecstasy, into a world she'd never known or suspected existed. He drove and drove into her until she felt she would explode, and then rippling shudders ran through her body as she felt his warm seed spill inside her. Burning need turned into satisfaction so exquisitely blissful, so utterly joyful, she didn't know whether she could bear it.

She touched his cheek, and she felt the sweat of exertion there, despite the cool of the air. His breath came in heavy pants as his body gradually relaxed, though they remained joined. An incredible sweetness stole over her, complementing the deliciousness her body still felt. Her own breath came slower, though her body still quivered from the feel of him.

“Lisbeth,” he said softly as he trailed a finger along her face, her cheek, her neck. She felt love in that touch, in its gentleness and tenderness. There was a kind of wonder in his face.

She smiled.

Her fingers caught his, and she touched his cheek with the back of her hand, holding it there, as she tried to contain the force and greatness of her love for him. She wanted to shout it out, to wrap him with it, but instead she contented herself with this small gesture of her trust and faith.

She would not, could not, force something he was not willing to give. She would wait until he realized, understood that he loved her, too. Because she knew now that he did, even if he couldn't yet admit it.

He kissed her hand, and held it to his lips for a moment longer, then he moved slightly, separating them.

“It's cold,” he said.

“I hadn't noticed.” She smiled against his neck. Indeed, the weather had been the last thing on her mind.

Disengaging slowly, he smoothed out her clothes, helping her with the pantalets that had been tossed to the side. With a few inches between them, Lisbeth felt the chill in the air. He must have seen her shiver because he took his coat and placed it over the riding jacket.

But she wasn't shivering from the cold. She was shivering from continuing quakes within her body, from the impact of their lovemaking.

She reached out her hand and grasped his. The love she felt, she knew, was shining in her eyes. His own expression was almost bewildered, but the reserve, the caution, had disappeared.

And he was smiling, that crooked smile she loved so much. She released his hand and touched his face, tracing a line that ran from his eyes to his cheekbone. “Do you let anyone get close to you?” she asked.

He shifted uncomfortably and started to say something.

“I don't mean Sarah Ann,” she said. A child was easy to love, easy to trust. They hadn't learned deception.

A muscle in his cheek worked. “Do you?” he countered.

“I don't shove them away. Perhaps because I was … lonely as a child.”

“Tell me about it,” he prodded gently, his hand clasping hers. She moved closer to him, and his arm went around her.

“There's not much to tell. My father and mother hated each other. My brothers followed their example. They were all always fighting, always competing, always pitting one against the other. I can't ever remember hearing laughter in that house. Or feeling love. Only fighting. I hated that house, but my father didn't believe in education for girls. I learned to read with the help of a vicar's wife.” She smiled suddenly. “She and one of my nannies were kind—extraordinarily so—but the nannie was fired, and the vicar died, and his wife moved away. And I was alone again.”

She hesitated. “But I learned from them. I learned that people
could
love, that there could be warmth and kindness. But then … the loneliness grew worse when they left. So I turned to our horses. In the Highlands riding is a useful skill, and my father encouraged it, though I had to hide from him how much I loved it. That would have been a weakness. Animals were to be used. Those that stopped being useful were killed.”

“And Jamie Hamilton?” Ben asked. “How did you meet him?”

“He was a school acquaintance of one of my brothers. My family was wealthy but didn't have a title, and they looked upon titles with awe. Jamie was invited to a hunt on our property. I had a sizable dowry, enough to make my family tolerable to his. My parents thought Jamie's title would give them … more respect.”

“You loved him?” He had asked that question before, but had found her answer ambiguous. Now he really wanted to know. He had received mixed signals on the man, ranging from adoration to contempt.

Lisbeth hesitated. “He was kind. Undemanding. He was unlike my family in every way. I think I thought of him as a rescuing prince more than a man. Some of the other men my family tried to get me to accept were …” She shivered at the memory of those men who were like her father, brutal and crude, who thought a woman was made to be used. “I was eighteen, and I thought Jamie was wonderful.”

“And was he?”

She hesitated again. “He was always considerate, and we shared an interest in horses. I was … content.”

And she had been. She hadn't known anything else. She hadn't felt the joy and pain of passion, or the grief and ecstasy of love. She wondered whether she could ever be merely “content” again.

Ben's arm tightened around her shoulders as if he understood the words she hadn't spoken. There was a quiet comfort in the gesture, an understanding she hadn't quite expected. She wondered whether he still harbored suspicions.

“I couldn't hurt anyone,” she said almost in a whisper, compelled to make him believe.

“I know,” he said. “I think I always knew. I just …”

“You're frightened for Sarah Ann.”

“I can't help feeling responsible for her mother's death,” he said. “I can't let anything else happen to her, and I feel so damned ineffective. It's like fighting a ghost. I know he's there, waiting, but I can't see him.”

She sensed Ben didn't usually feel ineffective. From the beginning, he'd exuded the kind of control and confidence that marked men who were very good at what they did.

“Why do you feel responsible for Sarah Ann's mother?”

He sighed. “She got caught up in something I was involved in.”

Those bloody allusions again.
What
something? She had given him her trust. She waited for him to do the same. She wanted it so badly, her breath was caught between her heart and her throat.

His hand went up to her face, fingers playing along its planes, hesitating at her mouth. “You've had your own losses, haven't you?” he said softly. “How did you stay so untouched?”

“I'm not untouched,” she said.

“But you still believe … in magic, and love, and—”

“Trust,” she finished for him.

“I want to,” he said, his voice strained, aching. “But I've had to learn to forget all that.”

“Why?”

He stopped caressing her face, and he turned her to face him. “Lisbeth, for the last four years, I've hunted men. That has a tendency to … sap a person of any feelings, especially trust.”

Lisbeth felt her heart stop. “But you're a solicitor.”

“I
used
to be a lawyer—a solicitor, if you like—but after the war I became a U.S. marshal.”

“A marshal?”

“Like one of your constables,” he explained. “I hunted outlaws.”

“Why?” She was beginning to sound like Sarah Ann, she thought, and evidently he agreed because the smallest smile twisted his mouth.

“After the war, I couldn't settle down in one place. There were … memories. And something I had to do. Marshaling seemed the best way to do it.”

“The man you told me about? The one who saved your life?”

Ben looked at her with astonishment as if surprised she remembered, or made the connection.

“Yes,” he said.

She'd always felt that man held a key to Ben Masters, and now she knew she'd been right.

“What happened?”

“I used him,” he said curtly. “As cynically as one man can use another.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Believe it, Lisbeth,” he insisted. “I used the life of his best friend as a pawn to make him do something completely abhorrent to him. I came damn close to destroying him. I did destroy Sarah Ann's mother.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing,” she guessed.

“I was arrogant,” he said. “I thought I knew what was best for everyone.”

“You said he was well today.”

“Do you remember everything?” he asked, then continued softly. “If he's well, it isn't because of me.”

She just looked at him. “Tell me about him.” Anything to keep him talking, anything to plumb the depths she'd waited so long to discover.

Ben hesitated, and she took his hand and held it tightly. After a moment, he started his tale.

“He called himself Diablo, but his real name was Kane. After he was released from the Union prison where he was sent after helping me, he became an outlaw. He and his friend were sentenced to hang.

“As a marshal, I served warrants and hunted wanted men. They kept disappearing into a hideout in an area we called the Indian Territory, and we couldn't find that hideout. I was able to … persuade Diablo to find it for us in return for his friend's life.

“He hated me for it, but it was the only way he could save his friend from hanging. I made him befriend people, then betray them.”

A moment of silence passed, then Lisbeth asked quietly, “And Sarah Ann's mother?” She kept going back to Mary May because, like Diablo, she seemed to be another key to the enigma that was Ben Masters. And, she admitted, she wanted to know about the woman who'd made such an impact on him. She feared part of her curiosity was sheer jealousy.

“Mary May knew where the hideout was,” he continued. “A place called Sanctuary. She had … done some business with the man who ran it. After Diablo got in, he made enemies with one of the outlaws there, and the outlaw was thrown out of Sanctuary. All the ‘guests' at Sanctuary were led in blindfolded; they didn't know where it was any more than the law did. But this man suspected Mary May knew the location. He tortured her to obtain the information so he could go back for Diablo. If I hadn't put everything in motion …”