Marshal and the Heiress (4 page)

She could only hope that the man wasn't an opportunist who would drain the estate's assets. She couldn't quite suffocate that thread of fear, though. Mr. Alistair said the guardian was a solicitor, and her experience with solicitors—with the exception of Mr. Alistair—had proved them to be money suckers and only slightly above criminals.

Lisbeth turned Shadow toward a fence. Elation surged through her as the great stallion lifted and soared over the barrier without shying. On landing, she slowly pulled the gray to a halt, then leaned over his neck, stroking him and murmuring endearments. Shadow arched his neck as if to say he could do it any time he wanted.

“You're a big fraud,” she muttered.

Henry the Eighth barked from behind the fence. It was a decidedly disgruntled bark, and Lisbeth shook her head. Henry was probably big enough to make the fence himself, but he was disgustingly lazy. He would be as fat as his namesake if he didn't get more exercise.

Lisbeth turned Shadow back toward the fence. Once more, he took it easily, snorting with well-earned arrogance as they returned to the stable, Henry running happily alongside, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Lisbeth's elation at Shadow's jumps faded as she approached the grand stone manor of Calholm. A few more days and the horses might all be gone and the only contentment she'd ever known gone with them.

She was living from day to day. Tomorrow she would take Shadow over the jumps again. If Ben Masters could see him jump, he would understand the potential of Calholm's stable. She had to believe that.

The rickety coach bumped along the rutted road until Ben thought every bone in his body had been shaken out of place. The jarring movements certainly weren't doing any good to the livid bruises on the right side of his body. Those and the bump on his head were, fortunately, the only injuries he'd suffered when the crates fell on top of him.

Nagging doubts about this trip deepened. The falling crates could have been a simple accident, most likely it was, but he'd always found coincidences suspicious.

Cameron had seen nothing suspicious, nor had anyone else. Ben had accepted Cameron's offer to accompany them to the Four Horses, where they all took rooms. Even Cameron decided to stay, saying he too planned to catch the Edinburgh coach the following morning.

That had been two days ago, and he and Sarah Ann were now finally approaching Calholm, having left the main coach at a village and hired this old vehicle for the final leg of the journey. The damned thing groaned as it took a corner, tilting for a moment before settling back on all wheels.

Sarah Ann's eyes blinked open. She'd slept much of the way. She'd had nightmares the night before and had awakened screaming. The “bears” were back, she'd told him in a tiny, frightened voice. She was alone in a dark room with no doors, and the room kept getting smaller and smaller. She kept crying but no one answered.

And she'd had no Andrew Cameron today, not since Duneagle, to amuse her with stories and magic tricks.

“We're neara there, sirrah,” the coachman said.

Sarah Ann stirred and moved closer to Ben.

“We're almost there, Sugarplum,” he said.

She gave him a sleepy smile, then picked up Annabelle's basket and opened the top. “You see, Annabelle. We
did
get here.”

Annabelle answered with a plaintive meow, and Sarah Ann plucked her from the basket. In the past weeks, Annabelle had grown substantially. So had her claws. In addition to bruises, he now had several vivid scratches.

But Annabelle seemed happy enough just to be out of the basket, and she plumped herself into Sarah Ann's lap, accepting Sarah Ann's crooning noises as her due.

Ben peered out the window. A stately structure loomed in the distance, and his premonitions returned. What business did he have in a place like this, in a country not his own?

At that moment, a horse, with a rider stretched low on its back, appeared out of nowhere in front of them. The coach lurched, the driver reining in the horses to prevent a collision. But the abrupt movement caused the lumbersome vehicle to tilt and in the next instant, it keeled over.

Ben just had time to grab Sarah Ann before the carriage crashed. Annabelle screeched and promptly disappeared out a window. Ben heard curses outside the coach as he tried to straighten, his body complaining bitterly.

“Sarah Ann,” he asked, holding her tight. “Are you all right?”

“Annabelle,” she whispered. “Annabelle's gone.”

“We'll find her,” he soothed, wondering what madman had been riding like a fiend down a public road.

The door, now located above them where the roof should be, jerked open, and a voice said, “Anyone hurt in there?”

Despite Sarah Ann's presence, Ben swore and set her upright. Whoever had opened the door was gone, and he stood, poking his head out of the opening. The coachman was standing in the road, dusting himself off, which brought Ben to the conclusion that the voice he'd just heard had come from the slender, carelessly dressed youth perched on the wheel. He was evidently the same person who had caused the disaster because a riderless gray horse now stamped nervously nearby. The boy was clothed in loose-fitting cotton trousers, a shapeless tweed coat with a cap drawn low over the face.

“Of all the damned carelessness …” Ben began.

“We weren't expecting anyone,” the youth said, more in accusation than apology. He took off the cap, and as a long auburn braid fell down the slender back, Ben realized the boy was not a boy at all but a woman.

“Shadow could have been hurt,” she added, frowning.

Ben barely suppressed a roar of anger. “Dammit, any fool should know better than to race down a public road.”

“This isn't a public road. It belongs to Calholm,” the woman started angrily, but then Ben lifted Sarah Ann so that she could be seen, and the woman's voice trailed off. She moved closer. “She isn't hurt, is she?”

Obviously his own injuries were irrelevant, but at least she was acknowledging that her actions might have harmed a child.

“No thanks to you,” he said.

She ignored him, her gaze scrutinizing Sarah Ann, who was now sitting on the edge of the door opening. The woman's eyes suddenly widened with apprehension. “You're not—”

At that moment, Sarah Ann wailed. “I want Annabelle.”

Ben flinched. Sarah Ann seldom wailed. In fact, he had worried about that. He expected a child to cry more than she did; but except for a very few tears, she'd endured all her upheavals with stoicism.

The woman, still perched on the wheel, spoke softly to Sarah Ann. “Who's Annabelle?”

Sarah Ann sniffed. “My kitten. I want to get down and find her.”

The woman grinned suddenly. “I think your Annabelle is just fine. She's busy chasing
my
dog.”

Humor danced in her eyes, and Ben realized she was prettier than he'd first believed. He also realized he was still standing in the carriage, his head sticking out like the fool he'd called her, and he couldn't boost himself out with Sarah Ann clinging to the side. “Can you lift her down?” he asked.

“Aye.” She leaned forward and took Sarah Ann with ease. She was stronger than she looked, but then she would have to be strong to control that giant of a stallion she had been riding.

Once Sarah Ann was safely on the ground, Ben lifted himself through the door and slowly, painfully, slid to the ground. His left leg, which always gave him some trouble, was stiffer than usual, and his body was sore all over.

Sarah Ann was looking frantically for Annabelle.

The woman knelt, her expression softening. “I saw your kitten jump out the door and go after Henry the Eighth. He's a great fraud, he is, and easily involved in games.”

“Henry the Eighth?” Ben asked.

“My dog.” Then at Sarah Ann's stricken face, she added, “Henry wouldn't hurt a mouse. That's why I have him. He absolutely refused to have anything to do with chasing foxes or pointing quail, and my neighbor was going to put him down. He thought Henry was cowardly. I think he's tenderhearted. But I'll send some people out looking for your Annabelle.”

Sarah Ann was not pacified. Her face slowly began to crumple.

“I think we'd better look now,” Ben said, more curtly than he intended. He was tired of accidents, pure or manufactured, and he was sore and frustrated. He'd never had much patience with irresponsibility, and he had none at all if it affected Sarah Ann.

He wasn't sure who the woman was. Maybe a servant stealing a ride on one of the estate horses. She surely didn't belong to the Hamilton family. He'd heard about the proper English gentry and had assumed the Scots would be similar.

Whoever she was, she looked taken aback by his tone, but she merely nodded. Just then, a great barking erupted from a distant copse of trees on the other side of the stone wall to the right of the road.

“Henry!” the woman exclaimed, and without another word, she easily mounted the large horse, backed him a number of yards down the road and flew over the Avail as if it were two feet high instead of five.

Ben wanted to go after her. Dammit all, it had been years since he'd had to stand back and allow someone else to do his hunting, much less this slight figure of a woman with no more sense than a goose.

He made sure the coach driver was all right, along with the horses, which were still in their traces. Then he went over to Sarah Ann and checked her again for injuries. She'd sustained a few bruises—nothing of note. She stood there looking hopefully toward the wall.

Feeling helpless, Ben lifted her, then walked over and set her atop the wall. He vaulted up next to her.

“Who is she?” Sarah Ann asked. He could only shrug.

“Why is she wearing pants?”

That was a harder question to answer. He'd known only one woman who'd worn pants, and she had been an outlaw's daughter in the Indian Territory. Such behavior was daring even in the freedom-loving American west. God knows what it was considered here.

He tried to see through the copse of trees but couldn't. He heard barking, a screeching meow, and then a howl. Suddenly, what looked like a small pony came galloping out of the woods rushing straight for them. It veered, disappearing through an invisible opening in the wall, reappearing on the other side only to collapse several feet away from them. Putting a great, hairy head on his paws, tongue lolling thirstily from one side of his mouth, he eyed Ben and Sarah Ann cautiously. Minutes later, the woman appeared from the woods; she was carrying something gingerly in her arms.

“She has Annabelle!” Sarah Ann said.

“It appears so.” Ben wondered what the kitten had done to the cowed dog—and the woman, who was eyeing Annabelle so warily.

Her careful approach gave Ben several moments to study her. She was not, by any stretch of the imagination, beautiful. Her features were ordinary and her face unfashionably freckled, something she'd made no effort to hide with powders. Her eyes, though, were quite remarkable. They were hazel, a mixture of amber gold, soft greens, and gray. They should, he thought, appear serene. They didn't. He saw cautiousness and suspicion in them instead—and hot, quick anger had ignited them when he'd accused her of recklessness. They were eyes that had learned to protect, to conceal, and in Ben's experience that was unusual in a woman.

Who in the hell was she?

She finally arrived beside their perch on the stone wall, and she gingerly handed the kitten to Sarah Ann, who instantly clutched the animal tightly to her chest.

“Thank you,” Sarah Ann said politely, and Ben knew if she'd been on her feet she would have managed a perfect curtsy.

“You're welcome,” the woman replied. The horse pranced beneath her, and Ben noted the blood dripping from a scratch on her hand. Her gaze turned to him, and he saw the silent appraisal in those wide eyes. “You must be the solicitor from America.” Her voice was husky, low, but there was no mistaking its femininity—nor the Scottish burr. “And,” she added, moving her gaze back to Sarah Ann and allowing a hint of amusement to creep into her tone, “you must be the newest Lady of Calholm.”

Sarah Ann looked puzzled and turned her face to Ben in question. “Papa told me all about that,” she said, “but I still think I'm just a girl.”

“Aye, that, too, and a bonny one as well,” the woman said, and Sarah Ann beamed with pleasure.

Ben decided it was time to learn who the stranger was. “And whom do we have … the, uh, honor of addressing?”

“Or the misfortune?” she retorted quickly, a smile on her lips. Ben found himself liking her spirit.

“You redeemed yourself by finding Annabelle,” he said.

“And how does Annabelle redeem herself?”

“She doesn't feel the need,” he said.

“I see,” the woman said, the smile widening. “I'm Lisbeth Hamilton, another … lady of sorts.” Humor sparkled in her eyes, making her rather plain face appealing. “There are three of us in the household now. My sister-in-law, Barbara, is also the Dowager Marchioness—though I wouldn't call her that unless you want a glass thrown at you.”

Ben was surprised. She looked more like a stable lad than a member of the peerage. “You're Lisbeth Hamilton?”

“The fool,” she said, reminding him of his first utterance. “I really am sorry about the accident, but usually there's no traffic on this road, and I've been jumping Shadow—”

“That's
your
horse?” Sarah Ann asked eagerly.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm training him.”

“Can I ride him?”

“He's a little big for you.”

“Papa promised me a pony,” Sarah Ann confided.

“Did he now?” she said, then looked at Ben. “You're planning to stay, then?”

“Did you think not?”

“We know very little,” she said. “Mayhap I can help you with that pony.”