Marshal and the Heiress (3 page)

“I have rel'tives there,” Sarah Ann offered, continuing a conversation Ben wanted to end.

“Ah, that sounds fine,” Cameron said. He looked at Ben again, a smile still hovering around his mouth.

Ben sighed, realizing Cameron wasn't one to take a hint. Nor was Sarah Ann. And he questioned whether he wasn't being too suspicious. He had become a loner, first shaped into one by the war, then by his chosen occupation. His job as a U.S. marshal had precluded friendships with anyone except his peers. And even those had been few. “Trust” was a word he'd all but forgotten.

His attention shifted from the Scotsman to the shore. The ship had docked and the gangplank was being lowered. Passengers surged toward it; at the same time, a man from shore pushed against the arrivals to gain the deck. He stopped to speak with the purser. Ben was about to turn away when he saw both men turn toward him, then away. He thought for a moment that the men might be talking about him, but their glances were so fleeting, he couldn't credit the idea.

The man from shore—a burly figure with a pugilist's battered face—continued to gaze around, his eyes studying other passengers as he gave the purser a package. Then he moved down the gangplank, disappearing into the milling crowd.

Ben turned toward Cameron. “Perhaps we'll meet again,” he said, then took Sarah Ann's hand and headed toward the purser.

The officer was talking to several other passengers, warning them to be careful on the docks, offering the services of crew men to help take luggage to hired carriages lining the street.

Ben asked him about their luggage.

“I'll have a seaman take care of it,” the officer said. “And where are you and the young miss staying?”

“Mr. Cameron suggested the Four Horses. Do you know it?”

“Lord Kinloch?” the man asked, obviously surprised. “Aye, indeed. It's a good inn, though I'm surprised Kinloch mentioned it.” The purser scowled. “His taste usually runs to the more, uh, shady.”

“Kinloch?”

“That's Cameron's title, though he's shamed it enough.”

Despite the purser's contempt for Andrew Cameron, his endorsement of the inn convinced Ben to give it a try.

A number of hawkers shouted the quality of their wares as Ben and Sarah Ann walked along the pier toward the carriages for hire. The bags, the purser said, would be with them shortly. Keeping Sarah Ann's hand firmly in his, Ben reached the end of the pier and had just started down a path between stacks of crates when he heard a familiar voice shout behind him.

“Look out!”

At the same time Cameron's warning reached him, Ben heard the creak of moving crates, his well-honed instincts instantly sounding his internal alarm:
danger.
Ben shoved Sarah Ann ahead of him, just as one of the crates came crashing down on top of him, and everything went black.

Chapter Two

Calholm

Lisbeth Hamilton tried without success to eat her dinner as her sister-in-law, Barbara, and cousin, Hugh, argued about the impending arrival of Calholm's new heiress. Lisbeth hated discord, having grown up surrounded by it. At the moment, however, she had some appreciation for her dinner companions' frayed nerves.

The trustee for Calholm, John Alistair, had informed them a month ago that an heir had been located, then sent word last week that the child—and her guardian—should be arriving in Glasgow any day. He had not mentioned an exact date. The news had been met with varying reactions: anger on Hugh's part, curiosity on Barbara's—and on her own part, hope.

“Ben Masters,” said Hugh contemptuously. “Sounds like an American ruffian. No doubt he's latched onto our little cousin for the money.”

Lisbeth privately agreed that was most likely the case. Still, she wondered what the American would think of this household, whether he would find it as unsettling as she did. Through various wills and trusts, both she and Barbara, as widows of successive marquesses, had lifetime rights to live in the house. After her husband Jamie's death, Hugh had come to live with them as the heir presumptive, taking over some of the sheep-farming aspects of the estate. John Alistair, though, had refused to petition parliament to designate Hugh as heir and had launched a search for Ian, scapegrace though he had been.

No one had expected Ian to be found. But after a year, the search had yielded not Ian himself but his daughter—and heir.

The news had squashed Hugh's hopes and spurred her own. She and Hugh had long been at odds over the future of Calholm's breeding of horses. She was as committed to it as the old Marquess. John Hamilton had harbored a lifelong dream to establish a stable second to none in. the British empire. The goal was to produce a champion for the Grand National, the most respected steeplechase in the British Isles.

And they now had a prospect: Shadow, a five-year-old stallion who'd been born the day Lisbeth had come to Calholm as a bride. She had always felt linked to the great gray horse. She had helped train him, had spent hours currying and talking to him; and when Jamie died—two years after his father's death and one year after his older brother, Hamish—she'd assumed their quest. She would give Calholm its champion.

Lisbeth lived for that goal. But then Hugh had arrived, equally determined to sell the horses and take Calholm in a different direction: sheep farming.

There was also the matter of the twenty tenant families, another bone of contention between herself and Hugh. John Hamilton had been committed to the descendants of the men who had fought with his father, the original marquess, during the Napoleonic wars. The men who had helped the first Marquess distinguish himself, thus winning the King's favor, a title, and the land. Those families wasted land better used as sheep pasture, Hugh argued. But she wouldn't allow the tenants to be put off the land, not as long as she still drew breath, not as long as even a sliver of hope remained.

Now, with the discovery of Calholm's heiress, Hugh appeared to have lost everything. So did Barbara, who'd tied her future to Hugh's. Their fates, and Lisbeth's, seemed to be in the hands of the American who held guardianship over Ian's daughter. And none of them knew what to expect, or even if the claim was valid. Perhaps there was no proof that the girl was, indeed, a Hamilton.

The burning question was: would the American and the little girl bring about Calholm's salvation or its ruination?

“They have no right,” Hugh said bitterly at the table, stabbing at the meat on his plate. “The letter said the child's mother was an entertainer. An
entertainer,
of all things!”

“I thought you liked entertainers—particularly actresses,” Lisbeth said, unable to keep sarcasm from her voice. Hugh was a notorious rake who had accumulated a ton of debts on the expectation that he would inherit Calholm.

He glared at her. He was aware that she had eagerly supported the search for another heir.

“You would rather have an American opportunist claim Calholm?” Hugh inquired, one eyebrow raised.

“At least he may not gamble it away,” Lisbeth said, unable to rein in her impatience with him. “John Hamilton would whirl in his grave if he knew your plans for what he so carefully built.”

“You care about those damn nags more than people,” Hugh shot back. “And you know I've stopped gambling.”

“No, I don't,” Lisbeth said. “Your creditors cut you off when it appeared you might not inherit.”

“Just wait,” he said. “The American will sell those bloody horses of yours. It's the only thing that makes any sense. And he'll bloody well kick off those tenants with a hell of a lot less than I would. He's obviously after money, and he won't be feeling any need to give it away to a bunch of poor farmers—family loyalty be damned.”

“He can't destroy Calholm any faster than you would,” Lisbeth retorted, feeling sick inside. Hugh was right. Her cause was probably hopeless. Still, she had to believe—for Jamie's sake, for the sake of all the families who depended upon Calholm to survive.

She had sufficient funds to maintain herself in a comfortable if not lavish manner. Jamie had left some money in trust. And her lifelong tenancy in the Calholm home was secured, though she doubted she would want to remain here if Hugh had control of the estate. Remaining would not mean much to her then, not if she couldn't keep her promises to Jamie and Jamie's father.

“I wonder what he's like,” Barbara mused. “I haven't met any Americans.”

Lisbeth noted Hugh's swift glance toward Barbara, and she almost felt sorry for him. He thought Barbara was his; indeed, Lisbeth knew the two of them had been carrying on a liaison almost from the moment Hugh had arrived at Calholm. Had they been two other people, Lisbeth might have believed it was a matter of love at first sight. But Hugh had a long and honestly won reputation as a rake, and Barbara an equally well earned image as a flirt. A gleam already sparkled in her eyes at the thought of a new man at Calholm.

And the American would be susceptible. Every man was. Barbara was a great beauty and had the charm to match. If she didn't use these assets for all the wrong reasons, Lisbeth probably would have liked her. In many ways, Barbara was like a child: pleasant and happy as long as she got what she wanted.

It was early November, but Barbara had already depleted her year's allowance—
more
than her year's allowance. Lisbeth knew she would never again see the money she had lent Barbara, and she'd refused to lend her more, despite Barbara's continued requests. Everything Lisbeth had was needed for the horses, their training and feed—a fact that Barbara resented.

Hugh glared at Barbara. “He's probably an old rustic. Not your type at all.” Then he added slyly, “He might prefer Lisbeth.”

Lisbeth didn't much care for Barbara's amused smile, even though she knew she wasn't a beauty. She'd never even tried to be, considering the expenditure of the time it required a waste.

“Or perhaps he has a wife,” Lisbeth countered, although Mr. Alistair hadn't mentioned one. Or he might be old and rickety, as Hugh suggested. Old and rickety probably wouldn't stop Barbara, though, not if she could get her hands on Calholm.

Suddenly Lisbeth lost her appetite. Too much depended on Ben Masters—and his integrity. Unfortunately, with the exception of Jamie, most men she'd met lacked that quality. And even Jamie had been unable to deny Barbara anything she really wanted.

“He'll be short and fat,” Hugh was saying, knowing that Barbara preferred handsome men. And Hugh
was
handsome.

Barbara gave him an infuriatingly smug look.

“If you—” he started to threaten, and Lisbeth could bear no more.

She rose from the table, and her dog, Henry the Eighth, who had been lying next to her chair, rose with her.

“Do you have to bring that beast into the dining room?” Barbara asked. “I don't imagine the Yankee will approve.”

Henry the Eighth, a huge, wooly beast, stretched, ignoring Barbara as he always did. He didn't care for Hugh or Barbara any more than his mistress did.

His tail hit Barbara's chair with a resounding thump, and she jumped slightly. Henry wagged it again in utter defiance, and Lisbeth had to grin. Henry was a continuing bone of contention in the household, but he went every place she did, and the American would simply have to live with that. She would fight for three things: Calholm's tenants, her dog, and her horses.

“Mayhap the American will not.” She shrugged. “And mayhap he likes dogs.”

“Not that great ugly dog,” Barbara said and shuddered.

“He's not ugly,” Lisbeth protested on Henry's behalf, not that Henry cared. She did, though. He was her best friend. Her only friend. She had always been an onlooker, often an unwilling one. She was that now, in this home. Calholm had never really been hers, not even for the brief time when she was its official mistress.

She soon would no longer have even nominal control. The new heiress—a mere child—would have the estate in entitlement until she gave birth to a son. That, at least, was the most prevalent interpretation of the mishmash of wills and entitlements.

If only Jamie had lived …

“The American might even sell that scruffy animal of yours,” Barbara baited.

“Or make
you
live on your allowance,” Lisbeth retorted. Angry at herself for rising to the bait, weary of the conflict and speculation, she started for the door. “I'm going to take Shadow out.”

“You shouldn't ride by yourself,” Hugh protested with rare concern.

Lisbeth looked at him suspiciously but saw no guile in his eyes.

“Remember what happened to Jamie,” he added.

How could she ever forget? That day would always be clear in her memory: Black Jack, Jamie's favorite horse, limping home during a hunt; the search for Jamie, and finally the discovery of Jamie's body; the magistrate's conclusion that he had fallen. She had never fully accepted it. Jamie had been a superb rider.

“I won't,” she said bitingly. “I saddle my own horse now.” The implication hung like a sword over them. She'd never directly accused anyone, but she'd expressed doubts about the verdict of accidental death.

God's toothache, but she needed fresh air. It was still an hour before dark, and Lisbeth hurried upstairs, changed to a pair of boy's britches and a shirt, and ran down the back stairs to the stable. She didn't want to encounter Hugh's and Barbara's disapproving expressions over her attire, but she'd discovered long ago that these clothes were much more effective while training and jumping horses. But she was careful about when and where she wore them.

Shadow was eager. She quickly cinched the light racing saddle. Callum Trapp, Calholm's trainer, and the grooms had apparently retired for the day, and she was thankful. She wanted to be alone. She wanted freedom.

She gave the horse his head and allowed him to race down the road as the cold fall wind pummeled her. A familiar exhilaration filled her, the pure joy of the moment. She wouldn't think about tomorrow or the next day, about the impending arrival of her niece and the American and what it might mean for Calholm, for her own dreams.