Marshal and the Heiress (5 page)

Though the offer was gracious, there was a sudden wariness in her that kept him at a distance. The smile had disappeared.

“Mayhap,” Ben mocked slightly. “But now we would like to get to Calholm. We were beginning to think it didn't exist.”

“It exists,” she assured him. “Just over yon.”

Ben slid from the wall, helped Sarah Ann down, then limped to the coach.

“You were hurt?” Lisbeth Hamilton said. Ben saw concern replace the reserve in her face, a reserve that raised his curiosity. He wouldn't have expected it of a woman who wore men's clothes and faced like the devil.

“An old injury,” he said curtly.
And a new one in Glasgow,
he added silently.

“I'll ride back to Calholm and have our carriage brought for you and some men to right the coach,” she told him. “I hope the rest of your trip was less … eventful.”

He didn't reply, but he couldn't help but ponder the immediate question that popped into his mind: had she anything to do with the accident in Glasgow? Would she benefit if the new heiress disappeared—or died?

Lisbeth pondered the meeting with the heiress and her guardian as she rode back to Calholm. No doubt about it, Sarah Ann was a delight. A beautiful child and well mannered, even under the worst of circumstances.

The American was another story—he was far more complex.

Ben Masters was reticent, which Lisbeth expected of a solicitor. But he certainly wasn't rickety or old or fat, as Hugh had hoped. She pictured him in her mind again, wearing that unfashionable sheepskin jacket. It made his shoulders look enormous. His feet had been encased in the strangest pair of boots she'd ever seen: brown leather tooled with a simple design. They had a slightly elevated heel that made him look taller than he already was, which was very tall, indeed. He was almost startling in his great size.

She was certain that Barbara would be on him like a leech. Would Barbara find him as easy to manipulate as others?

Lisbeth doubted it. Indeed, recalling the alert, cautious look in his eyes and his distinct lack of response to her attempts at humor, she knew he was not a man to be easily influenced.

What he was was interesting-looking. Not handsome—his face was too rough-hewn for that, with intriguing lines that inched out from his eyes and carved trails across his cheeks. She didn't think they had been made by laughter. His skin was bronze, as if it had been permanently colored from long hours in the sun, which was more than a little unusual for a solicitor. His light brown hair was colored with gold, and his eyes—a startling light blue—were suspicious and watchful.

He hadn't smiled, but then why should he, given the circumstances of their meeting. She had not made a good first impression, which didn't bode well for her winning him to her side.
A reckless fool.
That's what he'd called her, and her capture of the cat—even she couldn't call it a rescue—didn't seem to have helped.

He certainly didn't look like an opportunist. But then, how did one look? And what did he want from Calholm? Money was the logical answer.

But perhaps she was misjudging him. Perhaps he would turn out to be the answer to her prayers, rather than her worst nightmare. Much to her distress, she didn't have a clue as to which it would be.

With a heavy sigh, Lisbeth spurred Shadow to a faster pace. Ben Masters was waiting and she had to tell her sister-in-law and cousin that the newest Hamilton had arrived at Calholm.

Chapter Three

Ben glanced at his pocket watch. It had been nearly an hour since Lisbeth Hamilton had ridden off, more than enough time for her to have alerted the household. He wondered if she would send a carriage at all.

At that moment, he saw a rather worn carriage approach. He had already helped the coachman lift their luggage to the ground, and Sarah Ann was sitting on one substantial piece, her hands firmly holding the top down on Annabelle's basket. She wasn't taking any more chances.

Their rescuer was little more than a lad himself. He doffed his cap as he pulled up, slammed it back on his head, and jumped down, going straight for their luggage. Three men rode behind him, and they immediately set about righting the coach.

“I'm Geordie,” the boy said. “Me ma's Fiona the cook, best one in the county. I help in the stable and round 'bout.” He leaned down, his hands on his waist as he winked at Sarah Ann. “And ye must be the new grand lassie.”

“I'm Sarah Ann Hamilton Masters,” she corrected him in her best grown-up manner.

The boy grinned. “Well, I'm verra pleased to meet ye, Sarah Ann Hamilton Masters.” He looked up to Ben's face. “And ye be Mr. Masters?”

Ben nodded.

“'Tis sorry we all are ye had this trouble, but we'll have ye hoome straightaway.”

Almost effortlessly he started tossing the luggage on the back of the carriage as Sarah Ann watched admiringly. Ben helped, and in minutes they were inside and rolling along the road. The driver of the overturned coach remained behind, directing the efforts of the three men from Calholm.

“I like that boy, but I don't understand all he says,” Sarah Ann said worriedly, patting her precious basket and stretching so she could look out the window.

“Me, either,” Ben confided. He too had struggled through the thick Scots brogue. He wasn't surprised that she liked Geordie. Sarah Ann liked everyone. Sometimes he worried that she was altogether too indiscriminate, and much too trusting. Andrew Cameron came quickly to mind.

Ben thrust aside the worrying thought and gazed out at the manor ahead. As guardian of the heiress, he would become responsible for the estate. But his training in American law and his experience as a soldier and U.S. marshal left him poorly prepared for his newest role. He wondered whether there was an estate manager.

Hell, he felt like a bull mixed among horses—or, more likely, sheep. God knows he and Sarah Ann had seen plenty of sheep from the coaches. The few cattle in evidence were unlike any he'd seen in America—shaggy beasts with as much hair as a buffalo.

The carriage moved into a circular drive and stopped in front of the manor. It was enormous and as stately as a palace. His boyhood home in Chicago would fit into it twenty times over. How could anyone feel at home there—particularly Sarah Ann, who'd spent her first few years in a small cottage?

Her hand crept into his and squeezed tightly, clearly seeking assurance. He wished he knew whether he was doing the right thing. He'd wanted to give Sarah Ann a family, feeling she deserved more than a cynical bachelor who'd disdained ties for years. He'd hoped that her Scottish relatives wouldn't be able to help falling in love with her—as he had. If only he was certain …

As the carriage pulled to a stop, the door of the manor opened and Lisbeth Hamilton appeared in the entryway. She'd used the time to good advantage, he noted, exchanging her masculine clothing for a simple light gray dress that fell, without bustles, gracefully to the floor. Her only decoration was a length of red and blue plaid attached at the waist and draped over her shoulder where it was fastened by a plain brooch. Her auburn hair had been brushed and pulled back in a blue ribbon. She would have looked serene and gracious had it not been for the challenging gleam in her eyes. Ben had the impression of an actress about to play a part she deemed dreadful.

She stepped from the door toward the carriage just as another woman appeared. Her dress was much more elaborate than Lisbeth's, and for a moment Ben couldn't take his eyes from her. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She must be the second widow, Barbara Hamilton, Dowager Marchioness of Calholm. Her eyes were a deep violet, a color he'd never seen before. Her hair was raven-black and her face exquisitely formed.

Ben stepped down from the vehicle and swung Sarah Ann to the ground. In one hand she clutched the kitten's basket. The other hand clutched tightly to Ben's.

Barbara Hamilton glided, rather than walked, toward him, holding out her hand. She introduced herself in a voice as perfect as her appearance. “Welcome to Calholm.”

Ben's free hand took hers, and he couldn't help noticing its softness. “Ben Masters,” he said. “And this is your niece, Sarah Ann.”

“You're pretty,” Sarah Ann observed guilelessly.

Ben, who'd guarded his words as long as he could remember, was always amused at her complete openness. It was only one of many things that enchanted—and startled—him about his young charge.

“Thank you,” Barbara Hamilton said prettily. “Lisbeth told us about your accident. I've warned her about riding around the countryside like a barbarian. You must be tired. The servants have prepared rooms and some food.”

Ben glanced at Lisbeth, who had also approached but who stood several feet behind her sister-in-law. At the mention of rooms and food, she had raised an eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth twitched. Ben knew suddenly that it had been Lisbeth who had made the preparations, not Barbara.

He felt the antagonism between the two women. It reverberated in the air, was evident in the way Barbara Hamilton ignored her sister-in-law, and in Lisbeth Hamilton's expression of mild amusement. He sensed that he was the cause of her amusement and he knew why. She must be well used to the reaction her sister-in-law aroused.

It was, he thought wryly, nigh onto impossible not to stare at Barbara Hamilton, as impossible as it would be not to stare at a great painting.

“My thanks to you both,” he said. “Sarah Ann is tired, and the two of us could use a bath.”

Lisbeth looked startled, and Barbara disconcerted that he had included Lisbeth in his appreciation. Undoubtedly, Barbara was used to getting all the attention. But he was familiar—too familiar—with beautiful women. He might enjoy looking at them, but he sure didn't trust them.

“Hugh will be devastated that he isn't here to greet you,” Barbara said.

Hugh, Ben remembered, was the one who had tried to bribe Silas Martin not to find the heir.

“He had to go to the village on business,” Barbara explained. “He's been running the estate until you … she … ah …” She stopped in mid-sentence, obviously at a loss.

“That's not exactly true,” Lisbeth Hamilton interjected.

“Well, he
would
be running it if you didn't continually interfere,” Barbara shot back.

The hostile currents grew stronger, and Ben watched with interest. He would have to tread carefully, trying to determine hard ground from quicksand. Some of his unease must have reflected in his expression, for Barbara's face took on a bright smile again.

“I've had cook make some scones for you,” she said. “Come along and we'll give you a good Scottish welcome.”

She turned toward the door, clearly expecting Ben to follow. He looked at Lisbeth Hamilton.

“Yes,” she said, a little too sweetly. “Go along. Geordie will take your bags to your room, and I'll have water heated for baths.”

A battle simmered between the two—that much was obvious—and Ben was oddly surprised that Lisbeth Hamilton participated in a blatant game of one-upmanship. She didn't seem the type. But it also appeared her heart was not in the game, and he suspected she thought her sister-in-law had scored the first victory.

He wondered about the game. He hadn't known what to expect on his arrival. Hostility toward him and Sarah Ann had seemed most likely. But it appeared the occupants of Calholm intended to court and indulge them both. What prizes were the Hamiltons after?

Ben smiled wryly. It might be an interesting adventure after all.

Lisbeth was considering evening wear when a light knock came at her door. She opened it to a deeply perturbed butler.

Duncan MacCormick was really too old to still be in service, but he resisted all encouragement to retire. And Lisbeth hadn't the heart to force him to leave. Duncan didn't hear very well, had a habit of dropping things, and couldn't remember much. But he had been a family retainer since Jamie's father was young, and he took great pride in Calholm and his role as head butler. Every time she suggested retiring, great tears ran down his cheeks. The Hamiltons, such as they were, were his family, all he had.

At the moment, he looked as if he'd swallowed a raw eel—shocked and deeply offended. “The … American,” he stuttered, “doesna like the rooms.”

Lisbeth felt a growing anger. She had chosen the bloody man's room carefully. It was the finest in the house, aside from the master's bedroom, and there were few suitable alternatives—none at all in the west wing, which was where she wanted him, far away from Hugh's and Barbara's rooms in the east wing. Lisbeth thought it best not to put temptation so close to Barbara's path. The child, of course, would stay in the nursery.

“No doubt he wants the master's bedroom,” she said.

“Nay.” Duncan shook his head, distress written all over the ancient face. He knew, like all the other servants and tenants at Calholm, that the newcomer meant change and, most likely, trouble. They all trembled for their jobs. “He wants the small lass nearby,” the butler continued. “He said the nursery wouldna do at all.”

It was not the answer Lisbeth expected and, in fact, it puzzled her. Children
always
stayed in a nursery, usually with a nurse or governess to tend them. It had been her place of safety as a child, a haven from the violence that was always ready to erupt in the Campbell household. She had planned, first thing on the morrow, to inquire in the nearby village for a nursemaid—Barbara, of course, having completely ignored, as usual, any of the practical problems presented by the situation. It seemed, however, that Ben Masters wasn't willing to wait for Lisbeth to solve the problem.

Ben had few reservations about changing the rooms assigned to Sarah Ann and himself. If Silas Martin was correct, he had the controlling hand and could sleep where he damned well wanted.