Marshal and the Heiress (15 page)

She was quite frank about wanting something from him. Her passion for the horses was obviously very strong; he'd discovered long ago that people could justify almost anything for a cause they believed in. While passion had never frightened him, it made him wary.

He needed to talk to the solicitor. He needed to know who, other than Hugh, stood to lose by Sarah Ann's claim to the inheritance, and exactly what would happen if her claim wasn't upheld.

At the stables, he and Sarah Ann found the door open and Callum Trapp scolding one of the stable lads. Trapp turned as they approached, touching his cap in a sign of respect Ben hadn't expected. His tone civil, he said, “Yer horse came, Mr. Masters, and the lassie's pony has made himself at home.”

Peppermint had indeed done so and was happily munching on fresh oats. He acknowledged his visitors with a swish of the tail.

“He seems a fine pony,” Callum said with as close to a smile as Ben thought possible on the weathered, stern face.

“Oh, he is,” Sarah Ann agreed, immediately warming to the praise of her prized possession.

“I hear you 'ave a fine cat, too, lassie,” he said.

“I'll bring Annabelle to meet you,” she promised.

Callum hesitated. “Perhaps you best not, lassie. There are some barn cats here who may not bless an intruder.”

“She chased Henry,” Sarah Ann said defensively.

“Ah, that one's a big coward,” he said affectionately. “I keep telling Lady Lisbeth that, but she doesna care.”

“We will take your advice,” Ben said. He wanted no catastrophes.

Sarah Ann didn't agree. “But—”

“We'll discuss it later, Sarah Ann,” he said, ending further protests. He wondered if the buts and whys would ever end. He doubted it. “I think you should say hello to your Peppermint,” he said, “while I look in at my new horse.” He looked toward Callum for direction.

“The last stall. He's fit enough,” Callum said.

It wasn't exactly approval, but then Ben didn't care if the trainer gave it or not. Bailey didn't compare in bloodlines to the Calholm stable, but he looked fast and reliable—and he was his.

“I'll take him out in the morning.”

“I'll be working with Shadow tomorrow,” the trainer said, “and the grooms will be running other horses. Can you be saddling yer own horses?”

“I would prefer it,” Ben answered.

“Good. If you don't be needing anything else, then …?”

“I don't need anything at all,” Ben said sharply. “Just stalls for the pony and my horse. I'll take care of the grooming and feeding.”

Callum's eyes were cool. But then why shouldn't they be? Ben was the outsider, come to take something that never should have been his. He really couldn't even blame Hugh for his resentment, either. He probably would have fought too for something he truly believed should be his.

Ben ran his hands down Bailey's neck and murmured some words to him, allowing the horse to recognize and know him. The animal nickered with appreciation, and Ben left the stall, heading toward Peppermint and Sarah Ann.

Sarah Ann was feeding oats to the pony from her hand. Her absolute fearlessness with animals sometimes worried him, though he admired it. He watched for several minutes before he heard a scream outside the stable. He turned toward the door just as Maisie, Barbara's maid, came running in.

“The cat … the dog … the cat … your lordship … please!” she stammered, bouncing from leg to leg in anxiety.

“Annabelle,” screamed Sarah Ann. She dropped the oats and scampered out of the stall, starting toward the manor house.

Ben scooped her up, then continued toward the manor. As he reached it, the door opened, and a stunned Barbara stood in the doorway. He stepped past her at the same time two animals streaked by him, followed by Lisbeth.

A table crashed and a porcelain bowl smashed to the floor, and they were apparently not the first casualties. An umbrella stand had tipped, and umbrellas lay scattered over the entrance floor. Suddenly the animals reversed course, the cat now chasing the dog as they pounded into the dining room. Another loud crash soon followed. Servants joined in the chase like swarming gnats, and Hugh appeared on the landing above, looking dazed.

Lisbeth shouted at Henry, but he was obviously having too good a time to pay attention. He chased Annabelle for several seconds, then Annabelle turned and chased him. It was next to impossible to tell who was chasing whom at any given moment.

Ben put Sarah Ann down, and, at the next pass of the two outlaw animals, he leaned over. He'd had a lot of practice in catching Annabelle, but, at the last second, she swerved, and he missed her. Instead, he caught Lisbeth. They smashed together; only his hands kept her from falling. Her head was inches away, and her hair had fallen from the tidy French twist she wore at dinner. She felt … soft. Even her stays couldn't disguise her softness.

“I'm sorry,” she said breathlessly, and for a moment Ben was thoroughly distracted by those vibrant gold-flecked eyes, by the feel of her.

But then the animals came dashing through again, brushing by his legs. He heard another crash and wondered if there would be anything left of the manor by the time they were through. Slowly, he released Lisbeth. She too looked dazed.

All at once, Henry barked and the animals came streaming back into the hallway. Ben seized the moment—and the renegade cat. But Henry kept coming and hurtled into him. His bad leg collapsed under the impact and, the next instant, all three of them fell to the hallway floor. He was only partially aware of the wails and oaths surrounding him, mingled with Lisbeth's delighted laughter.

Ben maintained his hold on Annabelle as Henry set two feet on his chest and started licking the damned cat. Annabelle meowed coyly. Lisbeth's laughter grew louder; so did Sarah Ann's scolding of the cat. The servants huddled around, not quite ready to tackle Henry.

Ben tried to sit and soon gave up. A chuckle started deep inside him as he pictured himself sprawled in the middle of the grand manor's entrance, clutching a cat while a hundred-pound mongrel held him prisoner—with a bevy of servants looking on. Annabelle had most definitely taken a toll on his dignity.

Lisbeth knelt and plucked Annabelle from his chest, and Henry followed the cat adoringly. Sarah Ann, looking worried, approached. “Annabelle is a bad kitty,” she said.

A gross understatement. Ben wanted to get up, but he couldn't. The chuckle moved up from his chest to his throat, and he couldn't keep it in. He started laughing. He laughed as he had never laughed before and the servants looked at him as if he were mad. But Sarah Ann giggled, and then threw herself on top of him, giving him a big hug. “I love you,” she said.

Those words wrapped around his heart. Sarah Ann might seek comfort from him and hug him, but she was stingy with her words, as if to give voice to her deepest feelings made her too vulnerable. Ben held her close, not caring that his dignity, such as it was, lay in tatters along with other objects in the house.

“I think it's time,” he finally said, “that your renegade cat goes to bed … and you, too.”

“What's ‘ren'gade'?”

“Someone who doesn't do what they're told.”

“Is Henry a ren'gade?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like ren'gades. Can I be a ren'gade?”

“Not if you want to be splendid,” he teased.

She considered that. “I think I would rather be splen'id.”

“I think that's a splendid idea,” he replied with a big smile.

He ignored the host of grinning servants as he awkwardly rose, bowed with what dignity he had left to Lady Barbara, and took Annabelle from Lisbeth. He gave Lisbeth a rueful grin, then made for the bedchambers upstairs with his two little ren'gades.

Chapter Nine

After picking several children's books from the shelves, Lisbeth prowled the library in search of distraction. Any kind of distraction. Henry prowled behind her, unintimidated by his brief scolding. He knew he was easily forgiven; and she needed his company.

She had never known a man to laugh at himself before. It had nothing to do with pride—or perhaps everything. Ben Masters had pride: it was evident in the way he held himself, in his air of self-confidence. That was the difference. Only a man entirely comfortable with himself could find humor in being sprawled on the floor clutching a cat and being sat upon by a dog.

The image made her smile again. In that moment, he'd seemed so heroic to her.

Henry the Eighth moaned for attention, and she leaned down to give him a hug. “You're a renegade, too,” she told him, “but an endearing one.” He buried his large head in the crease between her breasts.

“Ah, the rewards of roguery.”

She stood up abruptly at the sound of a wry masculine voice. Ben Masters had changed to a comfortable-looking, well-worn pair of denim trousers and a cotton shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, showing muscled arms and a spattering of golden hair. She had never seen a man in denim trousers before, though she knew of the material and had even seen some in a dressmaker's shop. She couldn't help but notice the way it hugged his hard, lean body.

His eyes caught her gaze, and she blushed.

“I'll have to get more suitable clothes in Edinburgh,” he said. “But these are comfortable.”

“Wear those in Edinburgh,” she said, “and every lady there will be …” she trailed off.

“Will what?” he asked with interest. He took several steps toward her, favoring his leg more than he had all day.

Guilt raced through her. His various misadventures at Calholm had evidently taken their toll.

She ignored his question, for she didn't want to speak the answer. “Henry and I seem disastrous for you,” she said. “Is there anything I can get you for that leg? Some salve?”

He shrugged. “It's nothing. I'm used to its small rebellions. I thought, though, I might take you up on your offer of a book for Sarah Ann.”

“What about a brandy?”

“That, too,” he replied, “especially if you'll share one with me.”

She hesitated. Ladies didn't drink with men, except wine at meals. But then he was American, and his customs were obviously different, freer. And perhaps drink would loosen his tongue; she hungered for more information about him. She hungered for other things, too, but she tried to ignore those needs. It was difficult when every nerve in her body was humming.

“All right,” she said, walking stiffly over to the cabinet where they kept the brandy. She poured two glasses, giving him by far a larger portion.

She noticed he watched her carefully though he said nothing. He took the glass she offered and sat down in one of the chairs, stretching out his leg. Henry flopped contentedly next to him.

Lisbeth felt deserted. Henry usually stayed next to her and seldom hovered around a stranger for more than a moment's inspection.

“He likes you,” she said.

“Probably because I make a great pillow,” Ben said wryly. “He's just waiting for another chance.”

She giggled. She couldn't help it. “I think Henry the Eighth's taken with Annabelle.”

“God help us.” He sighed. “Don't tell me he's as indiscriminate as his namesake.”

Lisbeth giggled again, astounding herself. She never giggled. “Everyone is scared of him because he's so big, but all he wants is to be liked. I think he admires Annabelle because she isn't intimidated.”

Ben raised a skeptical eyebrow. She imitated his shrug, and the corner of his mouth bent into what appeared an unwilling smile. Why would he be reluctant to smile at her?

He took a slow sip of the brandy. “It's good.”

“Scotland is well known for the quality of its spirits.”

“I thought it was known for consuming them.”

She grinned. “That, too. What about Americans?”

“We hold our own.”

She had noted, though, that he was cautious in his drinking. He usually took no more than a glass of wine during supper, and he was drinking very slowly now. Not like Hugh, or even Jamie, both of whom often drank to excess.

He was quiet, nursing his drink, looking around the library with an appreciation Lisbeth understood. She loved the room; it had become her private sanctuary since no one else ever used it. She hadn't even known so many wonderful books could exist in one home; the library—if it could be called that—at her childhood home had been small, its volumes concentrating on war and weapons.

“There's a great variety here,” she said. “Jamie's father loved books. He bought everything he could.”

“And Jamie?” he asked. “Did he also love books?”

“No,” she said wistfully.

“What did he like besides horses?”

“Music, drink, tales of Scottish feats.”

“Did you love him?”

It was an impertinent question, but then she had asked her share of the same. A week ago, she would have said yes, without reservation. Now, she hesitated.

She had been so grateful to Jamie. He had given her a home, and he'd always been kind. They'd shared pride over Shadow and the excitement of racing.

Besides, she'd never believed in the kind of love portrayed in books and song. Love had never existed in her home. Her mother and father had hated each other and her brothers considered their wives as slaves to be used.

Yet Ben Masters made her wonder if there wasn't something more to be had from love than what she'd had with Jamie. If Ben didn't make her blood run hot, he certainly warmed it considerably. The tight cloth of his trousers hid little, and every time her gaze dropped slightly, something deep and primitive—and new—inside her responded.

She sipped the brandy, though she was tempted to gulp it.

“You didn't answer,” he reminded her.

“Why would you think I didn't love him?”