Marshal and the Heiress (10 page)

“You're gambling on that?”

“Jamie's father gambled on that—and Jamie. It's what they wanted.”

“And what you want?” he concluded.

“Yes,” she said defiantly.

He paused, then asked, “How did your husband die?”

The question hit hard. It was impertinent and none of his business, and yet she heard herself answer. “The girth on his horse slipped when he was jumping. His neck was broken.”

Masters finished tending her arm, and his hands dropped away from her, leaving her feeling vaguely bereft, empty. His fingers had felt good on her skin.

Hunting through the basket, Lisbeth found an herb mixture for burns. “Fair's fair,” she said, grabbing his hand. She studied the burn again. Like her scratches, it wasn't bad, but a poultice would help the pain.

“Stay here,” she ordered. She tried to sound as authoritative as he had.

Whether or not she had succeeded, he did as he was told. She added water from a pitcher to the herbs and brought the mixture back, then pressed a layer against the burn. His expression didn't change, and she couldn't tell whether the pain had eased or not.

His eyes were like ice and fire at the same time. They looked cool, but they seemed to burn right through her. She wished the herb poultice cured that sort of pain, too.

“Thank you,” he said, somewhat stiffly.

“You're welcome,” she said, thinking he didn't look grateful at all. He looked, instead, disconcerted. Had anyone ever taken care of him before? Had Sarah Ann's mother?

The questions nagged at her.

Masters stood. “Can I expect more midnight excursions?” he asked with that crooked smile.

“Not from me. Annabelle is too good a watch cat.”

“What about Henry?”

“He's probably sound asleep on my bed.”

“Smart dog.”

Suddenly the air was alive with innuendo, the room crackling with electricity. Another minute of this and she'd be lost in the fog of intimacy surrounding them.

He touched her cheek. “It's been an … interesting evening.”

Her legs were turning to water. “Yes.”

“I think I might enjoy Scotland more than I thought.”

“It's really … quite beautiful, particularly when the hills are covered with heather.” She was babbling. She never babbled.

“You should see Texas in the spring, and Colorado in the fall.”

God's toothache, she was being consumed by his eyes. She felt compelled to respond. “But it can't be grander than the loch nearby.”

“The lake we can see from the window?” he asked, winning her nod of approval. “I've promised to take Sarah Ann there. Can you guide us?”

Pleasure suffused her, lazily and sensuously.

“I'll have cook prepare some Scottish delicacies. Scones and cream and jam.”

“Sarah Ann will like that.”

She wished he would say he'd like it, too, but he didn't. Despite the warm sensuality of his words, he kept his distance emotionally. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to bridge the gap between them.

But she couldn't. She couldn't let wayward feelings get in the way of what she hoped would be a sound business relationship. Feelings were treacherous.

“Good night,” Lisbeth said. “I'll quench the lamps.”

Masters nodded, hesitated only a moment, then made for the stairs. She stayed behind, eyeing the brandy bottle. She had never taken a drink alone.

The circumstances could be considered unusual, though, unusual enough to justify a drink for medicinal purposes. She poured herself a glass and gulped it, feeling the fiery liquid sear a path to her stomach. It didn't help at all.

Disgusted with herself, Lisbeth returned to her room. Henry was oblivious to the world, including the recent attack on her person—and her emotions. He was, instead, snoring quite happily on top of her bed. He barely lifted his head in acknowledgment as she lowered the lamp she'd taken from the kitchen and sat next to him.

“Useless dog,” she complained affectionately.

He moaned. Henry moaned a lot, sometimes with pleasure, sometimes in response to her speaking to him. She liked to believe he understood a lot of what she said, though she knew he just plain adored being talked to.

She threw her arms around him, and he shivered with delight and moaned again.

“What do you think of him?” she asked.

He moaned.

“That's no answer.”

He licked her hand sympathetically.

“That's more like it.” She hugged him, happy for his uncomplicated presence—a great relief after the very complicated presence of Ben Masters. She wondered whether she would get any sleep at all this night.

Chapter Six

Ben was awakened yet again by a body bouncing on top of him. This time, however, the body was a tiny one.

What was happening to his instincts? Usually, the slightest sound woke him. It did last night; why not this morning? If people were going to continue to creep up on him while he slept, he would have to start wearing clothes to bed. So much for his old bachelor habits.

Sarah Ann gleefully bounced on him again, and an involuntary “oomph” exploded from his mouth. She was getting heavy.

“Can we get a pony today?”

Uncomfortably recalling several incidents from last night—or was it early this morning?—he looked around cautiously. Instead of answering, he asked, “Where's Annabelle?”

“Lady Lisbeth brought her some cream,” she said.

Dear God, his instincts had gone straight to hell if someone had entered Sarah Ann's room without his waking. “That was nice of her,” he said noncommittally.

“It was … splen'id,” Sarah Ann replied.

“Splendid?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yep, splen'id. That means
very
nice. Lady Lisbeth said Annabelle was a splen'id cat.”

Lady Lisbeth was a liar. But bringing Annabelle her breakfast had been thoughtful, especially since the animal had twice scratched her.

“When did she bring it?” he asked.

“Just now. She was real quiet. She said she didn't want to wake you. She hushed me.” Sarah Ann put a finger to her mouth and whispered, “Shhh.”

“She did, did she?” Ben said, partly amused, partly even more concerned than before. What
had
happened to those damned instincts?

Of course the door had been closed between him and Sarah Ann. And he'd stayed awake a good piece of the night trying to figure out Lisbeth Hamilton. Apparently,
she'd
had no trouble sleeping if she had been visiting at this early hour. That was a disgruntling thought.

Annabelle joined them, cream dotting her ragged whiskers. She leaped next to Sarah Ann on his lap, kneading her paws on the trousers he'd decided to keep on when he'd returned to bed. The cat was perilously close to a part of him that he definitely didn't want clawed.

“Now that Annabelle has eaten,” he suggested, “I think we might go in search of food.”

“And then a pony?” she asked hopefully.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I don't know how long it will take us to find one.”

“I think we'll find a splen'id one today,” she said confidently, quite pleased with herself.

He grimaced. He didn't want to dim her enthusiasm, but finding a pony might not be all that easy. Ben disengaged Annabelle and placed her on the floor, then sat upright. He set Sarah Ann on her feet.

“You wash,” he said. “Do you know which dress you want to wear?”

She tipped her head in thought. “The blue one. A pony will like the blue one.”

He sighed. He was not going to be able to divert her thoughts from that damned pony.

“All right,” he said. “I'm going to shave, then I'll come in and help you with the buttons.”

“I can button the blue dress myself,” she said. Which was one of the reasons she liked it best, he knew. Managing the buttons, which were in front, made her feel more grown-up.

“Well, I'll help brush your hair, then.”

“All right,” she said happily, imitating the way he'd said it. “Come on, Annabelle. We're going to get a pony.” She disappeared into the next room in a flurry of red curls and white nightgown.

He shook his head. A child's faith. And all her faith was placed in him. Somehow he had to find her a pony.

He also had to face Lisbeth Hamilton in the glare of daylight. The memory of her body pressed to his last night stirred an ache deep inside him. It had been months since he'd slept with a woman. The last one had been Sarah Ann's mother, a thought that sent a shard of pain into his heart.

He hadn't loved Mary May; he hadn't known her long enough. But he'd liked her more than any woman he'd ever met, and, given more time, he probably would have loved her. She'd had a zest for living that was rare. And a sense of humor to boot.

Lisbeth Hamilton had a sense of humor, too. Calling Annabelle “a splendid animal” certainly required a sense of humor; so did naming a furry behemoth Henry the Eighth. Ben stopped shaving long enough to grin.

But the grin faded quickly.
Instincts,
he warned himself.
Don't forget your instincts.
Lisbeth Hamilton, Lady Calholm, wanted something from him, and she probably stood to profit if there was one less heir.

Ben stared at his reflection in the mirror, at the lines in his face. Those around his eyes came from years of squinting into the sun. Others stemmed from less benevolent causes: war, pain, responsibility, too many split-second, life-or-death decisions. He was ready for a more peaceful life, and Sarah Ann deserved one, too—a peaceful life free from any more uncertainty and loss.

He wasn't sure Calholm was the place to find that life.

Ben finished shaving and pulled on a clean white shirt and changed to a pair of riding trousers. What did one wear in the morning in the Scottish countryside? He didn't know, and he really didn't care. He wasn't going to confine himself in a cravat and waistcoat.

He went into Sarah Ann's room. She had, as promised, dressed herself and was patiently lacing up her best pair of shoes. Her dress was a little askew, the buttons in the wrong holes. The dirty scarf was tucked in the collar of her dress.

She looked up at him. “You look very handsome,” she said solemnly.

“And you look very pretty, Lady Sarah Ann.”

“I'm not—”

“A lady, I know,” he said, “but you soon will be.”

“Ladies have ponies, don't they?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I'll think about it.”

“You do that, Sarah Ann,” he said seriously. He brushed her hair and tied it back with a blue ribbon. She stood proudly before him, as if at inspection. As surreptitiously as he could, he fixed the buttons while looking at her admiringly. “You look very royal, Sugarplum.”

“I like sugarplums better than ladies.” She was very serious, and he had to stifle a chuckle. He had to hide his amusement often, for fear of offending her. Before he became her guardian, it was rare for him to even feel amusement.

“I can understand why you'd prefer sugarplums to ladies,” he finally said, realizing she was waiting for approval.

“Do you like sugarplums better, too?”

He choked. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

The infernal questions again. She looked at him expectantly as if waiting to hear a great truth.

“Depends on the sugarplum and the lady.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly stymied by the enigmatic answer.

He felt a moment of triumph, but it was quickly squashed.

“Do you like Lady Lisbeth?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously.

“A lot?”

“I don't know her that well.”

“What about Lady Barb'ra?”

“I don't know,” he replied. “What do you think?”

She pondered the question. “She's very pretty.”

“Yes.”

Just then, Annabelle jumped into her lap, and Sarah Ann's thoughts were diverted. “Do you like it here?” she asked the cat.

Annabelle didn't deign to reply.

“I think she does,” Sarah Ann proclaimed on Annabelle's behalf.

“Why?” Ben thought he would turn the tables on her.

“Because she'll have a pony to play with.”

Turning the tables by asking questions seemed of no use. Sarah Ann couldn't get her mind off the blasted pony. “I don't know if Annabelle shares your enthusiasm for a pony.”

“She will. She likes everything I like.”

That was a dubious assumption, but Ben didn't really feel like a new round of questions. “Let's go, Sugarplum.”

“We'll take Annabelle.”

“I think we better leave her here and warn the maid. You don't want her to get lost.”

“Henry goes everywhere,” Sarah Ann argued.

“Henry doesn't scratch everyone.”

“Annabelle doesn't, either. Just when she's scared.”

Which was most of the time. “You can play with her after breakfast. I think she needs some sleep. She had a hard night.”

“Did
you
have a hard night?”

“A very hard night,” he said. “Now, come along.” He picked up Annabelle and put her in the basket. Since the cat was quickly learning how to open it, the measure was temporary at best.

“What's a hard night?”

“It's one when a cat jumps up on you when you're sound asleep.” Not an entirely accurate account of last night's activities, but true enough. Annabelle would ruin anyone's sleep—even without help.

“Oh,” she said again, her face creasing with sudden worry. “Annabelle was a bad cat?”

“Annabelle was Annabelle,” he soothed. “Now let's go eat.”

Sarah Ann looked puzzled, but decided to leave well enough alone. She put her hand in his, and they left together for their first full day at Calholm.

After bringing a bowl of cream to Annabelle and looking in on Sarah Ann, Lisbeth had taken Henry out for a run. Now she walked into the dining room, Henry at her heels.