Marshal and the Heiress (26 page)

Still
,
if only my own child had lived …

Fiona finished cleaning the cuts and applying salve. She was looking at the swelling ankle when Ben Masters stepped up. “I'll carry her to her room and put some cold compresses on it.”

Fiona looked at Lisbeth for approval, and she nodded.

At that moment, Barbara came into the room, her gaze moving from Lisbeth to Ben and back again. “I heard there was an accident.”

Lisbeth sighed. Hugh would probably show up next. “Just a small fall. I wasn't paying attention.”

“Hugh and I warned you about riding,” Barbara said. “Perhaps now you'll—”

“I have no intention of not riding,” Lisbeth said.

“But …?” Barbara looked up at Ben appealingly. “Maybe you can convince her to give up those horses. They're dangerous. They've already killed one member of this family.”

Lisbeth clenched her teeth together. It was just like Barbara to use this mishap to pursue her own cause.

Ben misinterpreted her expression of irritation as pain. “I think this discussion can wait,” he said. “I'm taking Lisbeth upstairs.”

Barbara bit her lip. “I'll come with you.”

“I want to come, too,” Sarah Ann echoed.

“I think Lady Lisbeth needs a little rest,” he said. “Maybe Barbara can read you a book.”

He had neatly trapped Barbara. She could only nod her assent. Ben looked at Sarah Ann until she too agreed, though not too happily.

“There are several books in her room,” Ben said, then he leaned down and lifted Lisbeth.

Lisbeth saw Barbara's frustration, Sarah Ann's pout, the servants' amazement—and then she closed her eyes and allowed herself to melt into Ben's arms.

Chapter Fifteen

Ben didn't know whether he was really being protective of Lisbeth or he simply wanted his arms around her again.

When he'd seen her fall, his heart had stopped. Until that moment when he'd faced the possibility of losing her, he hadn't realized how much he cared for her. He
did
realize how unwise it was, even putting aside the suspicions that still lingered in his mind. As much as he was beginning to like Scotland, it would never be home, and he doubted whether he would ever be comfortable at Calholm with its grand house and host of servants.

Lisbeth, a Scot used to every luxury, would not adapt easily to the kind of life he now knew he wanted. The ideas had been dancing around in his head, and though they hadn't yet come together, a few things were clear. He wanted to return home. He wanted to practice law again. Not the kind of law he once practiced with his father—the dry, passionless pleadings for railroad companies and businesses—but the kind that had to do with justice.

He probably should have ignored the summons to Edinburgh. But he'd been compelled to discover the truth about his daughter's inheritance. Now he wondered whether the journey had been a mistake, whether it was wrong to take from others because of an accident of birth. And whether Sarah Ann would truly be happier here than in Denver.

He didn't know. He didn't think he would ever know what was best. And he was driving himself crazy thinking about it.

Ben reached Lisbeth's room with Duncan and Fiona trailing behind, carrying linens and water. Henry had appeared from somewhere and anxiously padded along at his side, his tail drooping close to the ground.

Ben gently placed Lisbeth in a sitting position on her bed, and he was immediately nudged aside by Henry, who desperately licked his mistress, first a hand and then the injured foot, trying to make whatever was hurt well again.

“I don't need a compress,” Lisbeth said with a small giggle that made Ben smile.

Duncan tried to push Henry away but the dog had no intention of moving or quitting his ministrations, and frail Duncan was no match for him. Lisbeth didn't intercede. Mischief sparkled in her eyes as she regarded the affronted servants.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, trying to keep a straight face, “but there's been too much fuss already. I promise I'll survive.” She scratched Henry's ears as if to convince him of the same thing.

“Are ye sure we canna do something more for you, Lady Lisbeth?” Fiona said worriedly.

“I'm sure,” she said, and it was clearly a dismissal.

Duncan and Fiona backed out, obviously not convinced any more than Henry was that their help was no longer needed. When they were gone, Lisbeth looked at Ben. “Thank you,” she said huskily.

He raised an eyebrow. “For startling you? It was a stupid thing to do.”

“'Twas my own fault for not concentrating,” she said. “Not yours. And I've taken falls before.”

That didn't ease his guilt.

“I am sorry about one thing—I made Sarah Ann worry so,” she added softly.

“She's all right now,” he said, “but I think you're going to miss dancing at the ceilidh.”

She shrugged. “The ceilidh is Barbara's affair, and so is the hunt. I will not miss it at all.” She grinned suddenly. “I ha' the perfect excuse now.”

“I was looking forward to a dance.” He hadn't meant to say it, but he realized he'd looked forward to holding her in his arms. “It was to be the one consolation of attending this ceilidh of Barbara's.”

She glanced down at his injured leg.

Reading her mind, he said, “I can manage a waltz.”

She flushed.

“Don't,” he said gently. “I learned to live with it long ago.”

“I hate ceilidhs,” she blurted out. “I did not even know how to dance until I came here.”

That took Ben by surprise. He'd supposed all young ladies of her rank would have had dancing lessons, just as he'd assumed her brothers had taught her to ride. He was wrong on both counts.

He tried to remember other things she'd said, things that hadn't seemed right to him. But he wouldn't pry. That would give her the right to delve into his life, and he wasn't ready for that.

“Will you be riding Shadow in the next few days?” he asked, hoping her answer was no.

A cloud passed over her face. “Geordie will ride him. He was going to start in any event. He'll be jockey at the Grand National.”

“You want to ride him yourself?” he said quietly.

“I would give anything,” she said fervently. She chewed on her lip. “Do women have more freedom in America?”

Henry had stopped licking her ankle, so Ben started to wet some of the linen and wrap it around the swelling ankle.

“Perhaps a little,” he said. “Particularly in the west. But they pay a high price for their freedom.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It's a hard land. Often harsh. It takes strength to survive. The women usually work as hard or harder than the men. They grow old long before they should.” He looked around the room, at the richness of it. “There are few servants.”

“You miss it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it beautiful?”

He hesitated. “Yes. It's nothing like your hills, though. There are plains that stretch as far as the eye can see, then dry and bare deserts that kill. But even they have a certain beauty, particularly when the cactus bloom. And the mountains … they're pure glory.”

He stopped talking, and Lisbeth remained silent. Henry had flopped down on the floor, watching Ben's every move with suspicion.

When he finished wrapping her ankle, he started for the door, thinking it the wise thing to do.

“Don't go,” she said softly.

He hesitated.

Henry whined.

Ben smiled. “Does he want me to go or to stay?”

“I don't think he knows himself,” she said. “He's very possessive, but he likes you.”

“How can you tell?” Ben said, amused.

She shrugged. “Have you ever had a dog?”

“No.”

“But you like them,” she said with assurance. “Henry knows you like him.”

“Oh, he does, does he?”

Her face was so serious as she tried to explain dog behavior that he wanted to lean down and kiss her.

“He greets you,” she said.

“Doesn't he greet everyone?”

“No. You're really the first,” she said, blushing a little at the admission. “You have a way with dogs and children.”

“But not with people?”

“Ah, isn't Sarah Ann a wee person?”

He agreed. “Much wiser than she should be.”

“She's lucky to have you,” Lisbeth said, an invitation in her eyes.

A kind of magic wrapped around them as their eyes met and held, as they spoke a language that needed no words.

Ben hesitated in the doorway a moment longer, then slowly moved back into the room, closing the door gently behind him. It was a damn-fool thing to do, he told himself, but …

He returned to her bedside, stood there awkwardly, then sighed as he sat next to her.

Lisbeth's hand stole into his.

“I'm glad you came to Scotland, Ben Masters. But I'm frightened, too.”

Astounded, he lifted his other hand to her face and pushed back a curl. “I can't imagine you being frightened of anything.” He thought of her racing Shadow over stone walls, something he wouldn't be eager to do, not even with his years of riding over rough country.

But those hazel eyes, golden now with some beseeching quality, were afraid of something. And her fear melted whatever reserve he'd sought to maintain. She turned away but his hand caught her chin, forcing her to face him.

He felt her tremble. He felt himself react in a dozen ways. He felt compelled to kiss her.

He did. Lazily at first, lips touching lips with feather-like gentleness. Then a searching kiss as he sought to explore the essence of her and of his own feelings as well.

Need quickened inside him, and something new, something even more powerful.

The kiss slowly deepened. They relished each step before proceeding to the next, savoring every touch, every new. sensation. His hands touched her hair and unraveled the braid, even as his lips and tongue seduced and enticed. Tendrils of curls wove around his fingers as if they longed to be there.

Her fingers touched and explored the back of his neck, drawing patterns that created an exquisite tingling that seemed to reach to every part of his being.

Her lips were alternately gentle and hungry, and her tongue both curious and passionate, shy and bold. When he looked into her eyes, they were startled, like those of a surprised deer. Yet the gold in them seemed to glow with the same desire that was filling him.

He felt sensations new and poignant and aching and glorious. As his hands and mouth sought to give and teach pleasure, he knew he had never really made or given love before. Her body was soft and yielding against his, and his own desire was flaming.

The moments stretched into infinity as he savored the sound of her heartbeat, the sweetness of her mouth, the tender touch of her fingers against his skin. The exquisite sensations built and built until the world was a swirling top of uncontrolled emotion and needs. His hands drifted lower, untying laces at the front of the shirt she wore and moving under her chemise. His fingers caressed her breasts and she moaned slightly, her body going so tense he thought it might break.

His fingers stilled.

“Don't stop,” she whispered.

“I was afraid—”

But her mouth closed on his, her lips as greedy as his had been. She undid the buttons of his shirt, and her fingers roamed his chest, sending hot rushes of heat roaring through his body. Her body stretched toward his, and the sudden, sure knowledge that she felt the same need that filled him humbled and excited him. Every part of him was alive and tingling and wanting.

“The servants?”

“They won't come in without knocking.”

He still hesitated, want warring with years of discipline, of reluctance to involve himself in anything but the briefest liaison. Only once had he allowed himself anything more—and Mary May had died because of it.

“Ben?”

Even his name sounded lyrical on her lips. Her uncertainty was his undoing. She was so independent, yet so vulnerable—and the combination was irresistible. He swallowed, then with a smothered curse he leaned down and his mouth found the nipple of her right breast.

Soft. So soft. He felt her hand tense in reaction to his touch.

“Dear Heaven,” she whispered with a sigh that floated in the air around them. He moved away and lifted her shirt over her head. She raised her arms to help him. There was so much trust in that small gesture that any caution left within him fled.

He'd never wanted anyone so badly.

Their lips met again, their breaths intermingled. She touched his face with a searching tenderness that made him weak. He needed that tenderness, needed it to the depths of his soul. He hadn't known how lonely he had been.

He felt the tremors in her body, as well as in his own. His mouth suckled her breast, his tongue teasing and circling and seducing. Her body arched, and then her hands were doing to him what his were doing to her. The nerves in his body became raw and burning, his manhood hot and throbbing.

He unbuttoned his trousers, did the same with hers, and then both pairs of trousers lay tangled together at the edge of the bed. Only their undergarments lay between them, pieces of cloth that tempted rather than protected.

She arched again, seeking contact.

He hesitated, aware of her injuries. “Lisbeth …”

She raised a finger to his lips, quieting him. “You have a handsome mouth, but it doesna smile enough,” she said.

“You must hurt—” he began.

“I do,” Lisbeth said. “Too much and in ways I shouldn't, but not from the fall. I did not know I could feel like this.” He looked as baffled—and as enchanted—as she was, she thought.

He touched her mouth. “You have a lovely mouth but you do not smile enough,” he mocked tenderly.

She sighed. The aches and soreness from her fall had disappeared, replaced by need. The need frightened her, the sheer strength of it. The raw hunger was one she had never known before. But for the first time in her life, she felt wanted and needed, and she couldn't keep her hands from wandering all over his body, exploring every inch of him, even as he explored her.