Marshal and the Heiress (20 page)

“That's what any sensible person would do,” she said. “That's what every landowner in Scotland is doing,
has
been doing for the past century. With England's taxes, we have little choice. But Lisbeth will hear naught of it.”

“I heard Hugh gambled away everything he once had.”

“He did,” Barbara said, “but he had very little, and he was desperate to make it into more. He and his mother lived on the sufferance of others for years. He craves to belong somewhere. He thought Calholm to be it. His bad manners are only a mask for his disappointment.” Her voice had softened. “He can be … very pleasant.”

Ben knew about disappointments. He knew about despair. He also knew about escape. He had turned away from everyone after being injured in the war, during those months when he thought he would lose his leg and his fiancée had broken their engagement to marry a banker.

Any further questions he might have asked Barbara were suddenly curtailed. A scream came from the open kitchen window on the side of the manor. However, it seemed a scream of outrage rather than terror, and Ben suspected Annabelle had been located. The cat was uncanny in finding its way to the kitchen.

He looked toward the stable. He loathed to be even farther away from Sarah Ann, but murder sounded in the offing inside the manor, so he hurried up the front steps and rushed to the kitchen.

The cook was chasing Annabelle around the room with a broom. The instant he appeared, the cat hurled herself into his arms, flinging custard everywhere—on his new clothes, the kitchen floor, her fur. Custard lay across the floor and over a table where a bowl had been overturned. Paw prints readily identified the culprit.

“Tha' cat goes, or I willna stay another day!” the cook said, her face trembling with indignation.

Annabelle swiped a rough tongue along Ben's hand. He didn't fool himself that it was a sign of affection. But the damn cat looked so pleased with herself as she curled up in his arms, a sound of satisfaction rumbling deep in her throat, that he had to brake a smile.

“Ah, Mrs. Ferguson, I am sorry,” he soothed. “Especially if that custard is as good as everything else you cook.”

Her face quivered again, but some of the anger faded from it. “Ye sure ye'd not be having some Irish blood in ye?”

He grinned at her. “Aye, I'm sure. And I promise I'll keep Annabelle in our rooms. You know how Sarah Ann loves her.”

The face softened. “She's a dear wee lassie, but”—her voice rose again—“I'll no' be 'aving that cat in my kitchen!”

Ben nodded solemnly.

She turned back to the stove. “Almost as bad as that 'Enry,” she mumbled. “A fine 'ouse is no place for such goings-on.”

Containing a smile, Ben backed out of the kitchen, keeping a firm hold on Annabelle. But Annabelle had apparently had her adventure—and evidently a fine, rich meal—and was content to be carried. On reaching the rooms, she streaked into Sarah Ann's chamber, licked the last of the custard from her paws, and curled up contentedly on the bed.

Ben gave her one last warning look, then went to his connecting room. He relieved himself quickly of the frock coat, shrugging into his more comfortable sheepskin coat, and quickly made his way back down the stairs.

Lisbeth wished the raw hurt would fade. Why had Ben hesitated before allowing Sarah Ann to come with her to the stables? The cool appraisal in his eyes had struck her as hard as any axe.

She rubbed down Shadow, keeping an ear open as Sarah Ann chatted happily with Peppermint several stalls away.

A rare delight had surged through her when she'd seen the approaching carriage but had faded quickly as she saw the look on Ben Masters's face. There had been no welcome, only hostility.

So Barbara had gotten to him during the trip.

No need to wonder exactly what means she'd employed. And now he was probably ready to sell all the horses, throw off the tenants, and buy sheep. As for his opinion of her … Lisbeth couldn't bear even to imagine it.

But his opinion of her didn't matter. She couldn't give up. Too much was at stake. People's homes, Jamie's dream, and, yes,
her
dream. In her entire life, she'd never been allowed to dream, so she had never imagined wanting anything that she had only a prayer of having. Jamie may not have given her passion or romantic love, but he had given her hope—hope that something she worked for and believed in could come true.

She wasn't giving it up. Not without a fight.

Lisbeth swallowed hard. She'd lived so long in a home without warmth or trust. Without love. And she supposed she could go on without those things for as long as she had to. If only Ben hadn't come along …

In the short time he and Sarah Ann had been here, they'd given her fleeting glimpses of what she had been missing. It made doing without so much harder.

Lisbeth finished rubbing down Shadow, and gave him the carrot she brought from the house, then went over to Peppermint's stall. He was nuzzling Sarah Ann as she chattered on.

“And we were almost trampled, but Papa saved us.”

“Trampled?” Lisbeth echoed.

Sarah Ann turned to her. “That's what Papa said. He knocked me down? See.” She took off the glove from her left hand and held the hand up for inspection.

Lisbeth noted the large bandage, and the redness of the skin around the bandage.

“Was your papa hurt, too?” she asked.

“I don't think so, but I don't always know. I'm supposed to take care of him, too, you know,” she said quite seriously. “But he always says he's fine,” she added with adult exasperation that Lisbeth found endearing.

“Grown-ups are like that,” Lisbeth replied just as seriously.

“But that's silly. I
like
being taken care of.”

Lisbeth found it difficult to argue with that logic. “He probably didn't want you to feel bad.”

“I feel worse when he doesn't let me take care of him.” Sarah Ann's eyes were sad and Lisbeth understood her frustration. She liked feeling needed, too. It had been a long time since she'd looked after someone in a personal, intimate way. Jamie had never been sick, and he had died instantly. He had disliked “fussing,” so all of Lisbeth's maternal instincts had gone to the horses, and to Henry.

“Men never want to admit they need anyone,” she confided to Sarah Ann.

“Why?”

Lisbeth wished she knew. She had become independent, too, in self-defense. She hadn't realized she needed anyone … until Ben Masters had held her in his arms.

“Because then they feel … vulnerable.”

“What's vun'ble?”

Lisbeth had seen Ben try to answer Sarah Ann's endless questions, and she had been amused. She wasn't amused now. Perhaps because she too was vulnerable.

“What's ‘vun'ble'?” Sarah Ann persisted.

Lisbeth tried to come up with a good explanation. “That's when you feel you can be hurt easily.”

“No one can hurt Papa. He's a lawman,” Sarah Ann said proudly. “Cully said so.”

“He's a solicitor,” Lisbeth corrected gently.

“No,” Sarah Ann insisted. “He got bad men.”

Lisbeth began to say that that's what solicitors and barristers did—they sent criminals to jail. But she had hardly said a couple of words when a low, thunderous voice interrupted.

“Having an interesting conversation?”

Lisbeth whirled at the chilling sound of Ben Masters's voice and found him standing a mere hairsbreadth behind her.

Ben had to stifle the urge to grin. Lisbeth's head was tilted almost straight back in order for her to look him in the eye. She appeared positively dumbfounded.

“Yes,” she said a little defiantly as her surprise faded.

“And how did ‘vun'ble' come up?”

She hesitated, then suddenly smiled. “She told me you never let her help you and asked why. I told her being helped made men feel vulnerable.”

Her smile drove straight through his defenses to his heart. “It does, does it?” he finally managed to say after a moment.

“I have observed such.”

Her Scottish lilt seemed more pronounced than usual. It was … enchanting. Ben tried to make himself remember his suspicions but they were disappearing quickly in the face of the attraction that radiated so strongly between them.

“What have you observed, Lady Lisbeth?”

“That men would rather die than admit a weakness.”

“And women?”

“Are never as hardheaded,” she replied serenely.

Her gaze was fixed on his now, searching, probing. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn't. He felt sucked in, like a man pulled into quicksand. Her eyes were so lively, so curious, so full of secrets. He wanted to know more of them, more of her. He wanted most to know how this lovely hoyden, who stirred him as no other woman ever had, could possibly be a murderess.

“Sarah Ann said you were nearly trampled in Edinburgh?”

The question was enough to jerk Ben out of his fascination with her eyes. Dangerous eyes. Were they also deceptive eyes?

Ben looked at Sarah Ann, who was standing next to Peppermint. “Why don't you talk to your pony for a minute?” he suggested. At her eager nod, Ben pulled Lisbeth out of the stall and down to Shadow's stall at the end of the stable.

“It was an accident,” he said, answering her question, keeping his suspicions to himself at the moment. “A runaway carriage, apparently.”

“Another accident?”

He remembered their first meeting. He shrugged. “I must be prone to them.”

She didn't reply, but something new appeared in those lovely eyes. Fear? Disappointment over failed plans?

“I met a friend of yours in Edinburgh,” he said.

He'd surprised her, he could tell.

“Andrew Cameron. He was on the ship from Boston.”

“Lord Kinloch?” Lisbeth said with a smile. Ben felt a bite of jealousy. Her expression held no guile, no fear, no apprehension, only pleasure.

He wanted to say Cameron had been expelled from the ship after being accused of cheating at cards, but he held his tongue. He'd never been a talebearer, particularly when the tale concerned a man's reputation.

“Sarah Ann took to him,” he said.

“Most women do. I haven't decided whether it's because of his reputation or in spite of it.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, which he'd learned was an effective way to get information without revealing his own thoughts.

“Like Hugh, Andrew had little or no inheritance—other than his title. Unlike Hugh, he's usually successful at gaming and he's particularly fond of races. Jamie and I met him at the Edinburgh Steeplechase, and he was one of the few men who …”

“Who what?”

“Listened to me, I suppose.” She was suddenly indignant. “No one thinks a woman knows anything about horses. Now that Jamie's dead, no one pays serious attention to our stable. That's why it's so important for Shadow to win.”

“So you can show them all?”

“So
the Hamiltons
can show them all. There are naught that can compare with Calholm's stable.” The Highland accent was strong again, growing stronger the more she talked of the horses.

Her face had flushed pink. Her curly auburn hair was wild, and her boyish clothes smelled of sweat and leather. Ben thought of the beautifully dressed and coiffed Lady Barbara and wondered why on earth it was Lisbeth who excited his senses, who created chaos in his usually logical mind.

Standing there in front of him, her eyes flashing golden fire and her lips still set stubbornly, she was more captivating than any woman he'd ever met. And challenging.

Ben told himself—commanded himself—not to touch. His fellow lawmen had often commented on his self-control, his absolute self-discipline, and the comments weren't always good-natured. The Iron Man, they'd called him.

But he wasn't iron now. He had thought himself impervious to the charms of women. For years, he had rejected anything more than a strictly physical coupling. But Mary May had unlocked the door, and now Lisbeth was opening it wide.

Don't!
But he did.

He touched her cheek, and the fire in her eyes seemed to smolder. He leaned over, and his lips brushed hers, lightly at first. Exploring.

She stiffened, and yet her body seemed to inch into his.

The sounds of the stable, the neighing of horses and the clomping of hoofs, faded. The only reality was Lisbeth, the soft sighs of her breath, the pliant warmth of her lips.

The ache in his groin grew stronger. He felt the swelling and braced for the need he knew was coming. His kiss deepened, his tongue entering her mouth in a primitive mating game. She stilled for a moment, as if surprised, and then she responded with a passionate curiosity that kindled a recklessness he'd never known before.

Nothing mattered at that moment except the need they were creating as they fed on each other, tasting, exploring, reacting. He wanted her. By God, he wanted her. His hands wound themselves in her hair, and he was only aware of its silky texture, of the way the curls wrapped themselves around his fingers.

The slam of a stable door brought the kiss to an abrupt halt. She jerked away, staring at him in astonishment.

He tried to focus, to remind himself of where they were. Sarah Ann was several stalls down. Stable boys were moving up and down the passages. Damn, what in the hell had possessed him?

But as he looked down at her, at her dazed eyes just inches away, he knew. Her face had a softness he hadn't seen before, a sudden glow that fanned the fires deep within him. He had been seeking answers. But this was one answer he sure as hell hadn't expected.

“Papa?”

The call for attention demanded a response. But it didn't quench the flame still burning inside him. He was relieved his coat fell down past his thighs.

“We're both mad,” Lisbeth murmured.

“Completely,” he agreed. He more than she, he thought, since not twenty minutes ago, he'd been wondering if she were a murderer.