Marshal and the Heiress (23 page)

As the heir presumptive, he'd moved into Calholm, and he and Barbara, whom he'd met on several previous occasions, had fallen in love. Bloody hell, how he had fallen in love! And for the first time in his life, he seemed to have a future.

But he also knew that Barbara enjoyed wealth and the things it could buy. She might love him as she claimed, but he had become a realist: love existed only as long as the purse stayed full. When Alistair persisted in his search for Ian Hamilton or his get, he'd died a thousand deaths. In desperation, he had even attempted to bribe the American solicitor to end the search. Unfortunately, the man had reported the attempt, and Alistair became determined that Hugh would never gain control of Calholm.

He knew his attempt at bribery had been stupid, but he had been so obsessed with Barbara and Calholm. It just wasn't right that a piece of Scotland should fall into the hands of an American who cared not a farthing for it. If anyone was a fraud, it was the arrogant American.

Hugh's only satisfaction was that Barbara's flirtations didn't seem to affect the American at all. Hugh couldn't understand why anyone would prefer a bluestocking who dressed like a man to Barbara, but he was grateful for that small blessing.

But what would he do now? Where would he go?

He could manage Calholm. He
knew
it. He also knew no one else believed it. But he had studied husbandry at Edinburgh University and had taken an interest in the estates where he'd stayed for brief periods with his mother. He'd always had hopes, if little else.

Hugh realized now his mistake had been waiting, expecting that life would hand him what his mother had sworn would be his. He'd never prepared himself for making a living by other means than owning and managing land. And now no one would trust him.

As he watched the three figures disappear toward the loch and the old castle ruins, he fought back bitterness, hopelessness. Dammit, the American didn't deserve Calholm. Nor did the child.

He felt a hand against his back, then smelled Barbara's scent.

“It appears he favors your sister-in-law,” he said bitingly, unable to stop the cruel words. He had been barely able to suppress his temper—and anguish—as she'd teased and tempted the American these last few weeks.

She leaned against him, and he fought his need for her. “I favor
you,
” she said.

“Only because you've had wee luck with him.” He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to sink himself in her body and forget everything else—his poverty, his debts, his lack of a future.

She sighed. “You know me, Hugh. And I was just trying to find out something about him, whether he's the fraud you think he is.”

“And did you?” he asked dryly.

“No,” she admitted. “He loves the child, but he doesn't say much about himself.”

“Does he kiss well?”

“He didn't try.”

“You're losing your touch, my love. I'll wager he's kissed your dear sister-in-law.”

“That's why you don't have a farthing,” she retorted, and he knew his words had stung her pride. “He couldn't like that … hoyden.”

“You didn't see them ride away a few moments ago … toward the ruins. A romantic trysting place.”

“The child was with them,” she said, and he knew then she'd been watching, too.

His jaw set. Every reminder that a four-year-old girl was taking what should be his made his blood boil—and his heart freeze. Why hadn't his bribe worked? Why had Alistair persisted? A true Scot should have protected his own. “Damn them!” he said.

“The child is rather sweet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maternal feelings at this late date, Barbara? You know what she's costing us?”

“I know, but she's a precocious child, and she gets that sad look—”

“Bloody hell, not you, too,” he said, exasperated.

She looked him in the face. “She has the Hamilton look about her despite that red hair. John Alistair says all the papers are in order. There's little we can do but accept it.”

“
You
can accept it,” he said bitterly. “You have your rights in this house and the trust. I have nothing.”

“You have me.”

“For how long?” he said. “I know you too well, love. As soon as Alistair's petition is approved, I plan to leave Scotland—just a step ahead of my creditors.”

Barbara stood there stunned. “Where …?”

If he hadn't been in such a terrible mood, Hugh might have felt some satisfaction at the strong emotion in her voice. He shrugged. “Maybe Australia or America. There's gold to be found, I'm told. It's better than poverty here.”

“I have some money …”

“It's not enough, my love, and I'll not live off you in any event. You'd end up despising me.”

“There has to be something …”

“With the exception of another accident, I don't see anything.”

“An accident?”

“Jamie … your husband. Accidents seem to occur frequently in this family.”

She shivered, and he pulled her into his arms. She turned her head to him, and his lips came down on hers. Desperation fueled his passion. How could he lose her?

Her arms went around his neck and seconds later they were on his bed, consuming one another.

Ben watched Sarah Ann's eyes close. Annabelle, who'd complained long and loud about being left in the room, was now nestling in the crook of one of her arms, reeking of the fish she'd just consumed.

Tenderness threatened to drown him. He hadn't known it could be so strong, so powerful. He hadn't known he could turn to mush just by looking at a tiny person. He pulled up the soft down comforter to cover her and found his hand lingering on her shoulder. Dear God, he wanted to keep her safe and happy forever. He didn't know how he would ever be able to let her go.

Ben straightened and forced himself to leave the room, going into his own room and closing the door. He changed to a more comfortable pair of denim trousers and cotton shirt, and pulled on his sheepskin coat. He needed some time alone—on horseback, where he could think. The inactivity, the lack of anything worthwhile to do, was eating into him.

It was time to start learning about Scottish estates and Scottish farming. Because no matter what he decided—whether to stay or to find a manager to run Calholm—he wanted to make sure it was the best choice.

The first step was to explore the estate. He already knew its boundaries from descriptions given to him by Alistair and Lisbeth. He'd not seen the outlying farms, though, the ones under dispute between Lisbeth and Hugh. The south fields, he'd been told, were used as the training field for Calholm's jumpers. The north and west were mainly occupied by sheep, and the east by some twenty families trying to hold a few acres each in tenancy. Barbara and Hugh wanted to put sheep on those acres, too. The few shares of crops Calholm received from tenants were only a fraction of the income additional sheep would bring.

He knew the argument. He'd been through it with Alistair, who had expressed the hope that Ben would preserve the farms.

Although he'd made no commitments to anyone, Ben's inclination was to preserve the farms. He'd seen land wars in his years of marshaling, and his sympathies had always gone to the homesteaders, who often worked from dawn until past nightfall to build something for their families. At times, he had been charged with the duty of ejecting homesteaders because they had settled on land that belonged to the government or to others. He'd hated that duty.

But neither did he believe he could be a farmer. Or a sheepman.

Ben made his way to the stable, greeted Geordie, the stable boy, and declined his offer to saddle Bailey. Ben found a saddle, and while he was checking the buckles, he heard barking from a back room. He looked curiously at Geordie.

“'Enry,” the boy said. “He dinna like being left behind.”

“Do you think it would be all right if he came with me?” Ben asked.

The boy shrugged. “I dinna know why not. Lady Lisbeth dinna want him to ruin Shadow's practice, but if he be wi' you …”

Ben saddled his horse, then liberated Henry from his prison. The dog exuberantly planted his paws on Ben's chest.

Ben rubbed the animal's head. He'd never had a dog; his father had forbade it during his childhood, and then it had never seemed possible—or fair—given his long days as an attorney, then the war and the demands of being a marshal. So he'd been an easy victim when Sarah Ann had pleaded to save a half-starved cat.

Henry barked enthusiastically and raced about as Ben swung into the saddle and trotted out of the stable heading eastward toward the tenant farms.

The sun had made its way out of the ever-present Scottish clouds, warming the air and shining down on the gorse and the dark green hills. He thought he saw a rainbow, then decided it had been an illusion. So many things about this country seemed to be an illusion: the peaceful hills belying years of warfare and treachery and yet uncommon valor.

As he crossed a hill, Ben saw smoke floating lazily into the sky from the chimney of a stone cottage below. Neatly kept fields, now lying fallow, carved patterns around the structure. He knew that the Calholm manor was staffed almost entirely by offspring of the tenant farmers; the small plots provided insufficient income for the tenants to live on.

A dog barked, and Henry ran ahead, his own thunderous barks drowning out the others.

As Ben approached, the door of the cottage opened and a woman peered out. A dog dodged past her body and ran toward Henry. The dogs greeted each other enthusiastically as Ben swung down from the saddle.

“I'm—” he began.

“I know who you be,” the woman said. “The new master.” Hostility flickered in her eyes.

Master.
The word startled him. He had fought a war so no one would have to use that word again.

“Are ye going to run us from our land?”

Ben couldn't stop the slight smile that curved his lips. Being a master apparently did not make him the automatic recipient of servility. “I have no authority to run anyone from the land,” he said.

“But ye will. My nephew Geordie said so.”

“Then Fiona is your sister?”

“Aye,” she said carefully.

“She's a fine cook.”

“Na as fine as me,” the woman said belligerently. “I make the finest meat pie in the district.”

His eyes narrowed. “Better than, Fiona's?”

She straightened her shoulders, age seeming to melt away from her, pride erasing tired lines. “I wouldna work for the grand house, na for any of the Marquess's sons.”

“Not even Jamie Hamilton?”

She sniffed contemptuously. “He wa' the worse of the lot. A wolf in lamb's clothing he wa'.”

They were the first unfavorable words Ben had heard about the sainted Jamie Hamilton, and they surprised him. “You are …?”

“Eliza Crawford, and ye can go tattle to Lady Lisbeth. She never saw 'im for wha' he was.”

“I won't go tattle to anyone,” he said. “And I have no intention of running anyone from their land.”

A smile spread across her face. “Then ye be welcome to my home to 'ave a wee taste of my cooking.”

Ben entered the cottage, noting the thatch roofing and the stone fireplace that also served as the stove. The one room was primitive, even compared to some of the sod shelters in the prairie. The smell of peat permeated every nook; it even dominated the smells coming from small crannies in the fireplace where pastries and bread were being baked.

“'Tis not verra grand,” the woman said, “but it's far better than the slums of Edinburgh or London.”

“I've lived in much worse,” he said, and he had. Violent storms and winter blizzards with only a cave for protection.

“In America?” she asked doubtfully. “I hear there be gold for the picking.”

“Many believe so,” he said, “and many are disappointed. There's gold, but it's hard—and often dangerous—to find.”

“Young Ian went to find gold.”

“I know.” Ben took a seat at a table, and the woman placed in front of him a plate with a warm sweet bun and a crock containing freshly churned butter. The pastry practically melted in his mouth. “You have the right of it, Mrs. Crawford,” he said. “You are a magnificent cook.”

“Better than Fiona?”

He grinned. “Ah, you're not going to put me on that hot rock, are you?”

“Ye do no' look like a coward.” Her eyes lit with life, and he thought she must have been a very pretty girl. Now, she looked weighed down by life and sorrow.

“When it comes to judging cooking, I am,” he said. “And I'll not stand in the middle of a fight.”

“I think ye be doing that right now,” she said, sobering instantly.

“Between the sisters-in-law?”

“Aye.”

“It's not a position of my choosing.”

She looked at him with shrewd eyes. “But ye have chosen, haven't ye?”

“I don't have the law on my side yet,” he said, “so I can choose nothing.”

“Ye said ye have no intention of making us leave. Hugh Hamilton and Lady Barbara believe this land should be cleared for the sheep.”

“Should it?”

“The first marquess swore that our grandfathers—an' their families—could live here forever.”

“But he didn't put it in writing?”

She shook her head. “He saw no need. He told his son, and his son told his.”

“And now there are no more sons.”

“Nay,” she said sadly. “We know other tenants have been put from the land they tilled for years.”

“Your husband?”

“Dead these past ten years. My son, Alex, tends sheep for Calholm, but he loves the soil. His heart be in those fields outside.”

Ben nodded. He'd known many westerners who had the same passion, and though he did not share it, he understood and had envied their love of land.