Marshal and the Heiress (7 page)

He looked toward Lisbeth. “Sarah Ann's?”

“Unless you want it,” she said with an enigmatic smile. She was the greatest mystery of the three, full of contradictions: sometimes hostile, sometimes amused, sometimes simply watchful. He wished he could read her mind.

He helped Sarah Ann onto her chair, then waited to see who would take the seat at the head of the table. Hugh pulled out the chair across from Sarah Ann for Barbara and the one next to it for Lisbeth. Then Hugh took the chair at the head of the table.

The heir presumptive.
As such, apparently Hugh had assumed nominal authority over the newest, and therefore more powerful, widow, Lisbeth. But who really ruled the roost here?

Ben took the seat beside Sarah Ann and helped her spread her napkin in her lap. She stared at the array of utensils in front of her. “There's so many,” she whispered to him in a voice that everyone could hear.

Ben grinned. There
were
a lot of knives and forks and such. He might be out of practice, but he'd been to enough dinner parties as a young attorney to decipher them. “You only need one at a time,” he whispered back.

Hugh frowned. “
If
you plan to stay, the child will need some instruction. Perhaps you do, too.”

“Oh, we plan to stay,” Ben said easily. “And I do think instruction is badly needed in this house, particularly in good manners, if not in how to handle forks.”

Hugh's face went red, Barbara gasped, and appreciation played across Lisbeth's face. Ben felt a slow anger starting to fester inside of him. He could understand Hugh Hamilton's resentment, even his anger, after being denied what he thought was his. But enough was enough.

Ben looked lazily across the table at Hugh, making no attempt to hide his perusal. Hamilton was tall, and he sat straight. Women would probably call him handsome, but dissatisfaction in his eyes and a bitterness around his mouth detracted from what otherwise would have been a fine-looking face. His hair was sandy colored, his eyes dark blue.

“Hugh meant no offense,” Barbara interceded. “He only meant to say that some of our … customs will be new, and we want you to enjoy Calholm.”

An obvious lie, though presented prettily. Ben saw the warning glance she sent to Hugh, and he realized that there was something between the two, something more than a distant kinship.

Hugh looked sullen and made no apology.

Barbara turned all her attention to Ben, and gifted him with a brilliant smile. “Did you have a good journey?”

“Good enough,” Ben said.

“And how do you find Scotland?”

“Interesting,” he replied unhelpfully as bowls of steaming soup were placed in front of them by a young serving girl.

“America's very impressive, I've heard.” Barbara was trying valiantly. Ben had to give her that. She leaned forward, showing no annoyance at his brief replies. Lovely black lashes frequently swept those large violet eyes. She was flirting, and she was obviously so used to success that it didn't occur to her that he might be immune.

“Impressive,” he repeated with a polite smile.

“I've never met an American.”

She made it sound like an honor. Hugh cleared his throat in annoyance. Lisbeth raised an eyebrow, aware, Ben knew, of what Barbara was doing.

“I have so many questions,” Barbara went on, fairly bubbling with enthusiasm. “America must be wonderful.”

“Wonderful,” Lisbeth echoed dryly. “But I think our guest might like to eat.”

Ben grinned. “I do believe Sarah Ann must be hungry.” He quickly found a spoon from the assortment of silver and handed it to her. Sarah Ann gave him that tremulous smile, and he realized she sensed the antagonism in the room.

She took a sip, tasted carefully, then took another sip. She had never been a fussy eater, thanks, probably, to Mrs. Culworthy.

He took several sips himself, then asked, “Tell me more about Calholm. How large is it? What about the crops?”

“Our main income comes from sheep,” Barbara said. “We could double the income if Lisbeth would agree to certain changes. I'm sure you would approve.”

“If he has any say at all,” Hugh growled. “My solicitor doesn't agree there's a valid claim.”

“Mr. Alistair disagrees,” Lisbeth said mildly. She turned to Ben. “My husband's father started breeding horses for steeplechase racing, and my husband continued the tradition. We have some of the finest horses in Scotland and one—Robbie's Shadow—will run in the Grand National in England next year. If he wins, we can command exceptional prices—”

“
If
he wins,” Hugh cut her off. “And in the meantime those bloody horses and the taxes are draining Calholm. There won't be anything left by the time that bloody stallion earns back even a fraction of the cost of those stables.”

“The Marquess spent his life building that bloodline,” Lisbeth said with no little passion. “You know he dreamed of a Grand National champion.”

“And that dream killed your husband,” Barbara interrupted. “I don't see how you can have anything to do with those horses.”

Lisbeth looked stricken for a moment, then struggled to regain her composure. Ignoring Barbara's comment, she turned to Ben. “Do you ride, Mr. Masters?”

“A little,” Ben said. Lisbeth looked slightly disappointed with his less than positive reply. At the same time, Barbara's face took on a tiny glow of victory.

“I understand you're from the west. I thought all westerners were … what do they call them?… cowboys,” Hugh interjected.

“Not all,” Ben said. “We do a few other things.”

“Mr. Alistair said you were a solicitor?” Barbara adroitly changed the subject.

“By training.” He felt no need to add that he hadn't practiced law in the past eight years. He'd been doing more deadly work.

“Were you in the Southern fight for independence?” Hugh asked.

Ben knew many Brits—including the Scots—had favored the Rebel side. He also had a feeling that Hugh Hamilton was only too aware of his lack of Southern accent.

“The rebellion, you mean?” he said. “I understand you had a few of your own. Should I ask which side your ancestors favored?”

“In other words, Hugh, mind your own business,” Lisbeth said.

“Calholm
is
my business,” Hugh retorted, sparks flying again across the table.

Ben wondered whether this battle was for his benefit or whether argument was a nightly custom.

“Hugh was merely curious,” Barbara said softly. “We don't see many Americans.” She leveled her violet gaze at him. “Have you seen any Indians?”

“A few,” he replied cautiously. “More than I would have liked.” That was true enough. Unless the Indians were renegades, he'd developed a policy of live and let live. He'd never understood the hatred most whites had against Indians.

“Do they really scalp people?” Barbara's mouth was pursed in an attractive little O.

Ben looked toward Lisbeth to see whether she shared her sister-in-law's bloodthirstiness but he couldn't tell. Her expression was neutral. She was listening, but he had no idea what she felt—if anything.

“What's a scalp?” Sarah Ann's small voice punctured the sudden silence.

“It's what's on a man's head, Sugarplum,” he replied.

“I thought that was hair.”

“So it is,” he said, “but under that is the scalp.” He watched her digesting that. It was always a miraculous procedure to him, that thinking process of hers.

The serving girl removed the soup and replaced it with the next course. Sarah Ann stared at her plate. “What's that?”

“Salmon,” Lisbeth said. “Do you like fish?”

“I don't know,” she said very carefully, “but Cully said I should eat everything on my plate. Good girls clean their plates,” she said as if reciting an oft-spoken rule. “I'm not very hungry, though.” Her voice drifted off.

“Who is Cully?” Lisbeth asked.

“Cully took care of me,” she answered. “I miss her.”

Ben's heart wrenched. He scooted his seat back and set her up on his lap, ignoring the others at the table. “You don't have to eat if you're tired. Or even if you don't want to.” He didn't know how he'd missed the signs. She hadn't been good all this time because she was naturally so; she was simply scared. He should have guessed, but he knew so little about children, about their needs or feelings.

“I'm not tired,” she insisted.

“I think it's time to retire,” he said. “It's been a long day for Sarah Ann.”

“The maid can take her to her room,” Barbara said, disappointment flickering across her face.

“It's been a long day for me, too,” he said. Then his gaze sweeping to Hugh, he added wryly, “But I thank you for your welcome.”

He set Sarah Ann down and stood, favoring his left leg. Damn but it hurt.

Lisbeth too was getting to her feet. “I'll send up some warm milk and brandy.”

“I'd prefer whisky, if you have it.”

She hesitated a moment, then said almost reluctantly, “I would like to show you the stables tomorrow.”

Sarah Ann suddenly perked up. He could feel her come wide awake.

“That would be fine.” He leaned over and picked up the child. “You wouldn't have a pony, by chance?”

“There are some colts and a filly, but no pony to ride,” Lisbeth said. “I'll ask Callum to check around the countryside for one.”

“Callum?”

“Callum Trapp. He's our horse trainer.”

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room. Hugh had also gotten to his feet and looked none too pleased at the conversation.

“Are you planning to stay, then?”

Ben met his gaze steadily. “Did you think otherwise?”

“You don't belong here. You have no right—”

“Neither do you if Sarah Ann's claim is upheld,” Ben said softly. “It's her birthright.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugh exploded. “Don't be so sanctimonious. You want the money. You'll take it and leave—”

“Think what you like.”
Christ
, his leg was hurting. And the longer he stood the more it ached. He turned toward the ladies. “Good night.”

Ben went through the door, carrying Sarah Ann, who clung tightly to him. A sip of that whisky Lisbeth Hamilton mentioned and bed. That was all he needed.

That and some relief from the turmoil in his mind. What had Barbara meant when she'd said that the Marquess's dream had killed Lisbeth's husband? Another accident? He remembered the crates in Glasgow. Accidents seemed to occur a little too regularly around here.

Thinking of Hugh's open hostility, Ben wondered whether the young man had the guile or stomach for violence. He certainly had one for bribery.

And Barbara? He suspected she was as shrewd as she was lovely. And she was protective of Hugh. Perhaps, together, they might have planned the attack at the wharf.

And Lisbeth Hamilton? He read her with more difficulty than the others. Her face gave little away, but she was obviously passionate about the horses she raised. Passionate enough to set villains on a stranger and child? But then, what would she gain by that? Hugh would inherit.

Hell, it was all a puzzle.

Ben pushed the troubling thoughts away as he entered the suite. Gratefully, he set Sarah Ann down and she made for Annabelle's basket, took the cat and cuddled it possessively. She murmured to Annabelle, then headed for the feather bed. Her mother's scarf was wound around her neck, and Ben knew she would sleep in it again. He had to think of a way to get it washed. Its sky-blue color had turned a smoky-gray.

Good girls clean their plates.
Sarah Ann had tried so hard to be good. It was time for her to be a child again. And that meant the coveted pony.

The elderly butler paused at the open door of the room, then entered. Duncan carried a tray with two glasses, a pitcher of warm milk, and a bottle of golden whisky. Even a cigar was included. He blessed Lisbeth Hamilton, though he suspected ulterior motives behind such largess.

Ben sat next to Sarah Ann as she drank her milk, then helped her into a long nightgown. He fingered the scarf. “Maybe we could ask someone to launder this,” he suggested.

She grabbed the end of the filthy cloth. “No,” she said stubbornly.

“Someday, then?”

“Someday,” she agreed in a sleepy voice.

It was obvious to him, though, that that someday might never come. He thought about slipping the scarf off after she went to sleep, but then considered the repercussions if she woke and found it missing.

Not yet. The time wasn't right to risk her trust only for the sake of washing a piece of cloth that represented security to her.

Annabelle eyed him suspiciously, as if she knew is every thought, then collapsed next to her mistress. The bed was meant to be his, but the young intruders would enjoy it much more than he.

With the slightest of sighs, Ben leaned down and covered Sarah Ann and Annabelle. The child's eyes flickered open for a moment. “I think I like it here. If I can have a pony.”

“You will have your pony, I promise.”

“Will you tell me a story?”

He thought of the glass of whisky … the cigar … and decided there was nothing he would rather do than tell her a story.

His supply of stories was limited, however. His father had never told him even one. But he'd found a book of fairy tales in Boston and had memorized a dozen. He'd tried to put a different twist on several, but Sarah Ann rejected that. She liked the same ones over and over again.

“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a beautiful princess who lived in a castle.”

“Like this one?”

“Just like this one,” he assured her.

“And she had a cat named Annabelle?” Sarah Ann asked.

“A
naughty
cat named Annabelle,” he replied.