Marshal and the Heiress (9 page)

“You're right on one count,” he said. “Annabelle
is
obviously ill-bred. We found her on the streets of Boston and she's so used to fending off villains, I guess her instinct is to attack first and ask questions later.”

“Not unlike her owner,” Lisbeth observed bitingly.

He unexpectedly winced. “Only with intruders in the night. Now, let me see that hand.” He took hold of her arm, which was bleeding slightly from cat scratches, and, with one finger, pulled up the sleeve of her nightclothes.

Lisbeth's first reaction was surprise at his gentleness. How could such large hands be that sensitive? His thumb ran over the newest scratches, and the ones created earlier in the morning. “They're not bad, but I'll have to apologize for Annabelle,” he said. “She won't do it for herself. She believes herself quite above the law. She pays attention only to Sarah Ann, and that rarely.” His voice held a wry note of admiration, as if he thoroughly approved of the cat's unruliness.

Lisbeth frowned. Henry the Eighth was no paragon of virtue, but he didn't run around chasing cats or biting everyone in sight, not even Barbara, though, once or twice, Lisbeth had secretly wished he would. Sometimes Henry was too good-natured for his own good. The same certainly couldn't be said of Annabelle.

Her eyes had narrowed. “Annabelle. What an innocent-sounding name.”

The corner of Masters's mouth turned upward in a crooked smile, and she had the impression he didn't smile often.

“It is, isn't it?” he agreed. “I've often thought her rather ill-named, but Sarah Ann was quite insistent.”

He had finished inspecting her hand and arm, and his gaze rose to her face. The searching look in his sky-blue eyes seared through her bones.

“Your hand must have been burned,” she said, trying to break the sudden intensity between them. “I'll get something for it.”

He shook his head. “I'm not letting you get away that easily.”

Lisbeth cocked her head.

“I still want to know why you came into the room.”

“I told you,” Lisbeth retorted, her anger returning. “I thought it was Sarah Ann's. This house gets very cold … and I know it must be a little frightening. I—” She stopped. She didn't want to tell him how many times she'd been terrified as a child.

His eyes were like a sword probing for a weak point in her armor.

“Why are you in this room?” Lisbeth went on the attack.

“Because Sarah Ann likes that bed, and I don't,” he replied.

She looked dubiously at the single bed he'd chosen.

“I'm used to simple things,” he said sarcastically. “Isn't that what you all believe? That I'm a fortune hunter who's latched onto a child heiress?”

It
was
what they all thought.
Had
thought. She wasn't so sure anymore what she thought. He was unlike any man she'd ever met.

“Maybe,” she admitted. She could have lied, but it went against her grain. Nor would he have believed protestations of innocence.

“Believe it or not,” he said, “I would return home in a minute if it weren't for Sarah Ann. But I won't take her heritage from her.”

His gaze held hers, and it was so brutally direct, she believed him.

His hand went back to her scratched one. “You'd better see to this,” he said.

“We both need mending,” she agreed. “Would you go down to the kitchen with me? The medicines are there.”

He looked toward Sarah Ann's room.

“She's safe here,” Lisbeth said, reading his thoughts. Whatever else he was, whatever his motives, he cared for the child. She couldn't doubt that any longer. “No one will do her harm.” She grinned suddenly. “I wish I could say as much for that cat.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He reached for a shirt that lay on the chair and pulled it on, not bothering with the buttons. His careless masculinity was a powerful force, unlike anything in her experience. Jamie had always been careful about propriety. He'd undressed in the dark and had always worn a nightshirt, even while making love.

Ben Masters's assurance was daunting. He slept in the nude and, even now, was bowing only marginally to convention. The flame of the kerosene lamp seemed devilish, playing shadow games over his chest, making the blond hairs glow as if they were gold. She shivered with the unwanted feelings that assaulted her like waves against the Scottish coast.

He frowned. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” she replied, but it was a lie. Her shivering had nothing to do with the chilly night. His gaze raked over her thin nightdress and dressing gown, and she felt as if he'd actually touched her. Awkwardly, she pushed a few strands of hair back behind her ear and started to braid them. She hated her hair; it was curly and unruly and never did what it should. And she'd seldom been as self-conscious about it as she was at that moment.

That thought stiffened her shoulders. This man held enormous power over her future, and she would be the worst kind of fool to let down her guard in front of him. She couldn't trust him—not even if she wanted to. Not yet. Perhaps never.

“Don't,” he said suddenly.

She was bewildered. “Don't what?”

“Don't confine that hair. It's really very pretty.” The words were appraising rather than complimentary, but their sincerity sent warmth flooding through her again.

She tried to move. But his gaze pinned her to the spot. She was so aware of his commanding size, of his self-assurance.

He touched her hair in a swift gesture that surprised her. Lisbeth reached up with one hand and took his fingers in hers, her thumb running over them. She felt the calluses. His hands were not those of a solicitor at all, adding another factor to the mystery.

She asked, “Are you quite sure you're a solicitor?”

“A lawyer,” he corrected, smiling slightly at her disbelief. “I am.”

“Do all American lawyers sleep with guns?”

“If they have unhappy clients,” he said lazily.

“And how did you get all those calluses?”

His hand suddenly seized hers. It seemed tremendously large, like a bear's paw, but his fingers were gentle as they ran over her own calluses.

“A lady's hand?” he shot back.

“As you've probably noticed, I'm not always a lady.”

“It depends on your definition of a lady,” he said.

A flash of pleasure rushed through Lisbeth. But as soon as he'd made the comment, his eyes turned wary again. He still hadn't accepted her explanation of her presence in this room. And
she
still wasn't sure what he was doing there. His explanation was difficult to believe: that he would give up the large room for a child and a wayward cat. In her family, a child hadn't existed except as an object of anger.

Did he really think Sarah Ann was in danger? Was that why he'd put her in what should have been his room? The notion was ridiculous. No one here would hurt a child.

“Come,” she said. “I'll get something for that burn.”

He hesitated again for a moment, but then nodded. “My lady,” he said almost mockingly as he went to the door and waited for her to lead the way.

When he closed the door behind them, she looked at him curiously.

“Annabelle,” he explained. “There's no telling where she'd go if she got the chance. At least Henry's not around.” The amusement was back in his voice again, and she thought how pleasant it was. No hint of nastiness colored it—as was often the case with Hugh's brand of humor.

She liked Ben Masters. An uncomfortable thought.

“Why is she always wearing the scarf?” Lisbeth asked as they walked side by side down the corridor.

“It was her mother's,” he said. “She never wants it far away.”

She wanted to ask about Sarah Ann's mother, but his voice had turned cold and hard.
He's hurting, too,
she thought.

He'd been so blunt, so direct … so American. It seemed odd, to run suddenly into a topic that caused him such obvious discomfort.

But then, maybe it wasn't so odd. Maybe he had very strong feelings about Sarah Ann's mother. Perhaps he'd been in love with her and mourned her still. That would certainly explain his tenderness toward Sarah Ann, a child who wasn't even his own.

Suddenly, it occurred to Lisbeth to wonder if Sarah Ann, in fact, was Ben Masters's daughter. Birth certificates could be faked. Perhaps Masters had entered into a conspiracy with the American solicitor Mr. Alistair had hired. Wouldn't Hugh love to prove that.

Lisbeth, however, found no joy in the prospect. She didn't want Ben Masters to be a liar. For the sake of her own and Jamie's dream, she needed him and Sarah Ann to be exactly what they claimed to be. She refused to admit to herself that she might also have other, more personal reasons to want Masters to be honest and trustworthy.

They reached the bottom of the staircase, and walked through the lower floor to the kitchen. Lisbeth lit several lamps, then went to the storage room where herbs and the medicine box were kept. She also found a bottle of brandy kept for medicinal use. She didn't know whether the American needed it, but she bloody well did.

Loaded down with her supplies, she returned to the kitchen. He was lounging against one of the walls, looking like two tons of masculinity. He was barefooted. But he'd buttoned his shirt halfway, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Still, her gaze automatically focused on the part of his chest that remained exposed. God's toothache, she hadn't imagined its impressiveness, nor had the darkness exaggerated.

Lisbeth scolded herself for having such thoughts. He might well be a confidence man and thief. He might be anything.

And you need him.
She had the fleeting thought that it might be like needing an asp.

Lisbeth felt a bit aspish herself and banged down the medicine box on the kitchen table. “Aren't you cold?” she inquired.

He took a long, lazy look over her nightdress. “Aren't you?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?” She couldn't keep the exasperation out of her voice.

“Not always,” he replied complacently.

Frustration boiled in her.

You need him on your side.

Even if he's a charlatan?

Hugh's the alternative.

She smiled through clenched teeth. “Where is your home?”

“In America?”

“Yes,” she said, clenching her teeth even harder.

“The last place was Denver.”

“The last?”

“I move around a lot.”

“Where were you born, then?”

“Chicago.”

It was like pulling teeth. He gave her nothing to fasten onto.

“Where was Sarah Ann born?”

“Denver,” he replied shortly, then strode over to the table and started riffling through the medicine box. It had taken him four steps to cross the room. It would take anyone else seven. She wished she weren't so conscious of his size, or the way he loomed over her.

Her entire body tingled with awareness, especially as she recalled the way she had fallen on him a short while ago.

He pulled out some ointments and bandages. “Sit down,” he demanded, and she wondered how and when he'd taken over. But then hadn't he taken over from the moment he'd walked onto Calholm?

Lisbeth sat, stunned by the authority in Ben Masters's voice.

He took her arm and studied the scratches, then washed them and soothed ointment over the area.

“I meant to doctor you,” she said, thoroughly put out.

“I can doctor myself.”

“So can I,” she shot back irritably. She had been taking care of herself for a long time.

The side of his mouth turned up again in that crooked smile that was so uncommonly attractive.

“Tell me about Hugh and Barbara,” he said.

She dropped her gaze and shrugged, trying to hide her dismay. She didn't want to talk about Hugh, and she particularly didn't want to talk about Barbara. She should have realized, though, that this was coming. A
ll
men wanted to know about Barbara.

“What do you want to hear?”

“You don't like each other.” It was a statement.

“We disagree with each other,” she insisted. “We admire different things.”

“What do
you
admire?”

“People who work hard. Animals, who have a certain innocence. Honesty.”
But I'm willing to use you even if you are dishonest.
She tried not to think about how much she might have to compromise her beliefs.

“And what does Barbara admire?”

“You'll have to ask her,” Lisbeth replied, unwilling to appear the jealous shrew.

“And Hugh?”

“Ask
him,
” she said with some satisfaction. She could be just as discreet as he was.

His eyes bored into her, and the smile disappeared. He seemed to be weighing her, judging her. She felt hideously wanting.

“Exactly how much power will I have if Sarah Ann is recognized as the heiress?”

“A great deal,” she said. “She would inherit Calholm and all its land and much of its wealth and investments. Barbara and I have lifelong tenancies in the house, but you could make that untenable if you wished.”

“You must resent that.”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Why?”

He was like a woodsman with a saw. Except he wasn't cutting into a piece of wood in this case. He was cutting into her.

“You might be the better choice,” Lisbeth replied. She started to add “between two evils” but thought better of it. However, his eyes suddenly gleamed as if he understood too well.

“Better than Hugh George Alexander Hamilton?” Masters aped Hugh perfectly.

“He wants to sell off the horses.”

“Are they worth that much?”

“Not as much as they will be in several years, when we have a champion.”