Marshal and the Heiress (12 page)

“I'll show you the rest of the horses,” she said quickly to cover Callum's rudeness. She led Masters down the two rows of stalls, introducing him to each of the twelve jumpers, three young colts, and one filly. She watched as, several times, he stopped to run a hand along the neck of a horse. He said little, but approval flickered in his eyes, and she took comfort in that.

Clinging to his hand, Sarah Ann cooed and ahhed over the horses, giggling when one reached his head down to nuzzle her.

When they were finished, Lisbeth waited for a reaction.

“They're fine animals,” he said, and she had to settle for that. She had already discovered he seldom said much of anything, and never what he was really thinking.

“They are among the best in Scotland,” she said. “We're getting offers to buy even from England.”

“But you don't want to sell?”

“Not yet,” she said. “If Shadow wins the Grand National next year, the horses will double in value.”

“The Grand National?”

“It's the greatest steeplechase in the world,” she said. “It's held at Aintree near Liverpool. We've duplicated the course as much as we can here with thirty fences spread over a distance of four and a half miles. Shadow's already won a number of hurdle races here in Scotland but the Grand National …”

Lisbeth heard the awe in her own voice. Grand National winners had made stables in Ireland and Britain both famous and prosperous. It was past time the Scots showed their mettle.

Masters was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You think Shadow can win?”

“I know it,” she said. “And one of the two-year-olds shows signs of being a champion in another three years.”

“Three years?” he said.

“It's rare for even a five-year-old horse to win the Grand National,” she explained, “but Shadow's extraordinary.”

“We race three-year-olds.”

“But most American races are on flat tracks and aren't nearly as grueling as steeplechases,” she said. “The Grand National requires strength and endurance that a young horse hasn't yet developed. It requires more training.
Years
of training. We've invested in those years.” She looked up at him with a silent plea.

But instead of responding to the unspoken entreaty, he changed the subject. “About that pony …”

Callum, who had been tailing along behind, spoke in what Lisbeth recognized as forced civil tones. “Douglas might be knowing of one.”

“Douglas?”

“The blacksmith in the village,” Lisbeth explained.

Masters nodded, his gaze wandering with interest to the horses again.

“I'll take Shadow,” Lisbeth told Callum.

“And which one for 'im?”

Lisbeth looked at Masters. “How well do you ride? We have horses ranging from gentle to … difficult.”

“Gentle,” he said. “Sarah Ann will be riding with me.”

That told Lisbeth little. Was Sarah Ann an excuse? But there was an aura of competence about him that made her think he probably did everything well.

She nodded to Callum. “Samson,” she said, then turned back to Masters to explain. “He's as big as his name, but has a much better disposition.” He gave her that crooked grin, and she was utterly charmed by the way it changed the austere face.

“Sounds about right,” he said.

She heard Callum mutter close to her ear something about Americans which she ignored.

“I can saddle my own horse,” Masters said.

Callum shook his head. “Lady Lisbeth wouldna like any more accidents,” the small Scotsman said and, with a disdainful sniff, retreated into the tack room. He returned shortly with a saddle, which he carried into a stall down the row.

Lisbeth ignored the American's questioning gaze as she quickly fitted a bridle and bit onto Shadow, then led him from the stall. She started to lift a small sidesaddle from a sawhorse, but it was taken firmly from her hands. She watched as the American competently tightened the cinch despite Shadow's nervous sidestepping. He touched the horse's neck, and Shadow instantly quieted.

“He's a fine animal,” he said.

Lisbeth's legs trembled slightly as his hands roamed over the horse, quiet approval lighting his face. He knew more than a little about horses. Would he want Shadow for his own? Or would he try to sell him?

Masters's eyes were neutral as he helped her into the saddle. “I like the other way you rode better.” He spoke as if they were sharing a secret.

“So do I,” she said, “but Barbara and Hugh would never forgive me if I rode astride into the village.”

“Do you care?”

The question caught her by surprise, and she didn't know exactly how to answer it. Part of her didn't care. But another part, the child in her, still wanted approval from those who never gave it. Defiance was the refuge of the lonely.

“No,” she said finally.

His gaze searched her face with care and wariness. Was he a confidence man? She still wasn't sure.

A primitive roughness radiated from him despite his soft-spoken words and good manners. Perhaps the war had created that edge that proclaimed his familiarity with danger; surely the practice of law hadn't.

Regardless of the cause, Ben Masters intrigued and frightened her. He was dangerous in many ways. And she realized she wasn't going to be able to sway him as she'd so fervently hoped. He wasn't a man to be used.

She watched as he lifted Sarah Ann up onto the horse Callum had saddled for him, then effortlessly swung into the saddle behind her. Lisbeth recognized his easy seat, the grace found only in an experienced rider.

He'd said he rode a little. That was one lie he'd told. How many others were waiting to be uncovered?

Chapter Seven

Damn, but it felt good to be on a horse again.

Ben shifted in the saddle, relishing the feel of it. He liked its light weight. Cavalry saddles were light, too, though a little larger to accommodate a carbine sling, bedrolls, and saddlebags. The saddles he'd used for the last several years, however, were of the heavy western variety, designed for days of riding, outfitted to carry the paraphernalia necessary on a long trail.

The saddle beneath him was the closest thing to riding bareback and took him back to his young days in Chicago.

Sarah Ann had ridden with him in Texas, and she settled easily in his arms. He could feel her excitement; her little body was wriggling with anticipation.

The horse, Samson, presented little challenge. He had an easy rocking gait and a mild temperament that responded instantly to instructions. For a moment, Ben longed for the horse he'd left in Texas. Lucifer had been well named: sometimes angelic but more often stubborn and rebellious.

The penetrating mist of yesterday was gone; the air, though, was frigid, and the wind whipped his hair. His body protected Sarah Ann's from the cold, but he felt exhilarated. He didn't know if it came from being on horseback again, from the cold wind, or from the sight of Lisbeth Hamilton riding next to him.

He'd always considered sidesaddles clumsy and unsafe. But she looked truly lovely perched there in a gray riding coat and hat that highlighted her hazel eyes and made her auburn hair more striking. She was every inch an aristocrat this morning, with no trace of the ruffian hoyden he'd seen before, except perhaps in the stubborn tilt of her chin. In contrast, he felt like a stable hand in his sheepskin coat and cotton shirt and riding trousers, totally out of place.

The low hills were still green though spotted here and there with snow. Small stone cottages, from which smoke snaked up into a royal-blue sky, dotted the landscape, along with neat plots of tilled earth. Sheep and a few cattle grazed placidly, side by side. He smiled, imagining the reaction of Texas cattlemen to the sight of the animals coexisting so easily. Most Texans were violently opposed to sheep, convinced they ruined cattle feed.

“There's those funny cows with shaggy hair,” Sarah Ann said. From the moment they'd first seen one, she had been fascinated by their unusual looks.

“You should see the cattle in the Highlands.” Lisbeth cast her a quick grin. “They look like yaks.”

“What's a yak?”

“It's a large hairy beast that lives in Asia,” Lisbeth said.

“Where's Asia?”

Ben sighed. “With Sarah Ann, one question always leads to another.”

“I've noticed,” Lisbeth said with a smile. “It's rather nice to have some curiosity around Calholm.”

“Lady Barbara?”

“Only about those items with lace and ribbons,” Lisbeth replied ruefully.

“And Hugh?”

“All he cares about is sheep and—” She stopped suddenly, and shrugged.

“And you?”

Her grin widened, her face becoming vivacious and alive. “Horses and books.”

He knew how she felt about the horses. The books rather surprised him. His surprise must have shown on his face because her chin tilted even more defiantly.

“Perhaps you can suggest some books for Sarah Ann,” he said mildly. Her defiance faded quickly, and he could only guess she'd been reassured by his tone.

“Our library has some wonderful illustrated children's books,” she said. “I always wished …”

She trailed off, and he wondered why. There was a mystery about her that puzzled him.

“Tell me more about America,” Lisbeth asked, changing the subject. “You said it's cold, too. And I've read of blizzards and snowstorms.”

“True,” Ben replied. “But then there are parts that are warm year round.”

“Truly?” she asked.

“Truly,” he confirmed as solemnly as if he were responding to one of Sarah Ann's questions.

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Masters?”

“Ben,” he corrected her. “If I call you Lisbeth, you must call me Ben. And no, I'm not laughing at you.”

She looked at him dubiously, then asked another question. “Which part of America are you from?”

“I was born in New York, but my father moved west to Illinois when I was a boy.”

“But Mr. Alistair said you and Sarah Ann lived in Colorado?”

She wasn't feigning interest, he'd decided; she genuinely wanted to know—unlike her sister-in-law, who had seemed more interested in flirtation than his answers.

He shrugged. “I moved farther west after the war.”

“And that ended three years ago?”

“Nearly four.”

“And you've been a solicitor since then?”

“Among other things.”

He saw the question in her eyes, but he still wasn't prepared to tell the truth, that he'd been a hunter of men rather than a seeker of justice. He'd asked Silas Martin, the solicitor who had found Sarah Ann, not to tell the family his full history. He was a lawyer; that was all they needed to know.

Ben still didn't know why he'd taken that precaution. Instinct, maybe, or distrust born of chasing criminals. He'd disguised himself plenty in the past, had fitted in with outlaws, had even established a sort of friendship with one named Diablo. But he'd learned to keep his own counsel, to give as little information as possible, to disarm and deceive. Not particularly attractive traits, but they were his now; he didn't know how to be otherwise. And Sarah Ann's future was at stake. He had to remember that.

But Lisbeth wasn't ready to give up.

“What other things have you done?” she persisted.

He shrugged. “How did you start raising horses?”

She was silent a moment, and out of the corner of his eye he caught her looking at him with a mixture of frustration and puzzlement. Then, with a sigh, she said simply, “I love horses. I always have, and when I came to Calholm, I thought I'd found heaven. Callum has taught me so much.”

“And your husband approved of you riding astride?”

She bit her lip. “I didn't ride that way until after his … accident.”

Her hesitation told Ben one thing: there was the possibility of murder in the death of Jamie Hamilton. Ben thought of the mishap with the crates. Were the two events somehow connected? Or was the idea too farfetched?

“Look,” Sarah Ann said, bringing him out of his musings. She pointed toward a horse and colt grazing in the fenced paddock of a nearby house. “A pony!” she exclaimed.

“Not exactly,” he said. “That's a young horse. It'll grow as big as the horse we're riding. A pony is always small.”

“When I get big, can I have a big horse?”

“The finest I can find,” he assured her.

Her questions ended abruptly upon their entering the village. They had spent a few hours here, changing from the Edinburgh coach to the hired coach, and she was just as fascinated now as she had been then. All the small villages along the journey entranced her. To her, the neat stone exteriors and big glass windows were like pictures from a fairy-tale book. They charmed him, too, Ben admitted. The air of solid permanence here was so different from the air of flimsiness and newness of the boomtowns in the west.

Lisbeth led the way along a cobbled street to a blacksmith's shop. She slipped down from her horse and opened the wide barn door. A bell rang and a husky man hurried over from a smoky forge.

He flashed a wide grin. “Lady Lisbeth,” he acknowledged.

“Douglas,” she said. “It's fine to see you again.”

“And who be these strangers with ye?” The huge man turned toward Ben and Sarah Ann, who flinched a little at the booming voice.

“This is Ian's daughter,” Lisbeth said. “And her guardian—”

“Ben Masters,” Ben interceded at her discomfort over finding the right introduction.

“Ahhh, Ian Hamilton. He was a wild lad, he was. But she's a fine-looking lass. And what can I do for ye?”

“A pony,” Sarah Ann said bravely and determinedly.

Lisbeth gave the blacksmith a conspiratorial smile. “I told her Douglas MacEver just might know of one for sale.”