Marshal and the Heiress (24 page)

“Did ye know young Ian?” she asked, changing the subject.

He shook his head. “No, but there had to be good in him for him to have produced a fine daughter.”

“He was a bonny lad, but wild,” she said sadly. “Nothing like the Marquess. None of the sons were. John Hamilton had honor.”

“I think he would be proud of his granddaughter. She has a huge heart.”

“So do ye, I think,” she said, “though ye try to hide it.”

No one had accused him of that in years. Before Ben could think of a response, Eliza Crawford announced, “I would like to see the child. Geordie said she's very bonny.”

“Then you shall,” he said. “I'll bring her by tomorrow.”

She grinned toothlessly. “I'll 'ave a meat pie ready.”

“That's an offer I can't refuse,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon, then.”

“I be waiting.”

“It's been a pleasure,” he said, taking his leave. He noticed the sparkle was back in her eyes, and he felt his spirits lift as he strode out the door and to his horse.

Despite the cool air, Lisbeth was bathed in sweat when she returned from an afternoon of jumping Shadow. She had ridden him ruthlessly, trying in vain to escape her tortured thoughts and the feelings that this morning's expedition with Ben and Sarah Ann had aroused.

She kept the stallion to a canter as she approached the stable yard, but slowed when she saw another horseman riding in from the east.

Ben. Delightful. She'd spent most of the afternoon cursing his name.

He pulled up, waiting for her. Henry the Eighth, who had apparently persuaded Ben to free him, came barreling on, barking rapturously when he saw her. She thought she also detected the slightest note of triumph in his greeting.

Lisbeth's hand instinctively pushed back the hair that had escaped its ribbon.

Pulling his horse level with hers, Ben gave her that bloody crooked smile that made him look so infernally intriguing.

“Lady Lisbeth,” he acknowledged.

She hated it when he used that title. She knew most Americans disliked titles. For heaven's sake, the colonials fought two wars with England to separate themselves from a title-plagued society.

Lisbeth dearly wished she had a retort, but none came to mind, so she simply turned Shadow toward the stable. But a moment later, her curiosity got the best of her. “Deigning to view your new domain?”

He raised an eyebrow at the asperity in her tone. “I thought it might be wise,” he said mildly. “I met Fiona's sister. She's an interesting woman.”

Lisbeth was afraid to ask why. She liked Eliza Crawford, but the woman was opinionated and didn't hesitate to express her views about the current members of the Hamilton family.

“She didn't care for your Jamie.”

Lisbeth immediately stiffened. However, she ignored his comment, dismounting her horse and leading him to the door of the stable.

Ben dismounted too and opened the stable door for her. Hugh had called Ben a ruffian, but, in truth, his manners, except for the occasional brusqueness, were impeccable.

Timothy, one of the boys who worked in the stable with Geordie, approached her. “I'll take yer horse and cool him down, my lady. And yers, sir.”

Ben shook his head. “I'll do it myself. Bailey and I are still getting acquainted.”

Relinquishing Shadow to Geordie, Lisbeth hesitated a moment, reluctant to leave. “I'll help you rub him down,” she heard herself saying to Ben. Now, why had she done that? Lisbeth could have kicked herself.

He smiled. “I accept the offer. Sarah Ann will be up from her nap before long.”

Lisbeth watched Ben as he deftly unsaddled the horse and undid the bit, then led the horse around the interior of the stable several times before leading him into the stall. She fetched two currying brushes from the tack room, giving one to him and keeping the other. Wordlessly, she started brushing the horse, trying desperately not to notice Ben's strong hands moving along the animal's withers.

He started whistling a tune she'd never heard before, a lovely but rather mournful melody.

“What is that song?” she asked when he finished.

“‘Lorena,'” he said. “We used to sing it during the war, though it started out as a Reb song.”

“What are the words?”

He started singing softly, his voice a true tenor, and she was transfixed by the pure longing of the words.

Years creep slowly by, Lorena.

The snow is on the ground again.

The sun slips down the sky, Lorena.

The frost gleams where the flowers have been.
”

“It's lovely,” she said.

“It's ingrained in my mind,” he replied. “You can't imagine how many times I heard it. Someone said war was ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent pure terror. Songs were all that relieved the waiting. Nothing relieved the terror.”

She couldn't imagine Ben Masters being terrified of anything or anyone.

“Were you ever in love?” she asked. The way he'd sung pricked her curiosity.

“Once upon a time,” he said. “At least I thought I was. I thought
she
was.”

Noting the cynicism in his tone, Lisbeth ventured to ask, “What happened?”

“She didn't want to marry a cripple,” Ben said flatly.

Lisbeth's eyes widened in shock. “She was a fool.”

His hands were moving along the horse's neck now. “Oh, I don't know,” he said. “The doctors all said I would lose my leg. I couldn't blame her.”

Lisbeth could. No wonder he eyed her with such suspicion. His opinion of women had to be dismal.

“What happened to her?”

“She married a banker.”

“And you went back to war?”

“To staff headquarters. A weak leg didn't matter so much there.”

“You could have stayed home.”

“I could have,” he said, “but there was something I had to do.”

“What?”

“I had to find someone.” He finished his side of the horse, noticed she had completed hers, and placed a blanket on Bailey.

“It's time to look in on Sarah Ann,” he said.

Question-and-answer session was over. He wasn't going to say any more. He was probably sorry he'd said as much as he had.

“Are you going back to the manor?” he asked.

Lisbeth shook her head. “I have to talk to Callum.”

“I'll see you at dinner, then.”

She didn't want to sit at the same table with him. She didn't want to subject herself to another rebuff. She didn't want to
need.

“I don't know,” she replied.

“Sarah Ann will miss you.”

And will you miss me?
She couldn't ask.

“Good evening, then,” he said. “Sarah Ann enjoyed our morning ride. Thank you for it.” He left without another word, leaving her feeling bereft and more confused than ever.

Ben cursed himself for being every kind of a fool. Why the hell had he told Lisbeth about Claire? Why had he sung that damn song? Why had he even thought of it?

Pure instinct. He had been seeking a way to put distance between himself and Lisbeth. Instead, he'd succeeded in narrowing the gap. In those few minutes he'd spent with her currying the horse, he'd felt a closeness he'd never felt with another adult human being. Not Claire. Not his father. Not Mary May.

The intimacy had been almost painful, yet, paradoxically, he'd felt an intuitive yearning to seek out that intimacy. As if blinders had been removed from his eyes, he suddenly realized that the closeness he'd shared with Lisbeth was the experience he'd been searching for all his life.

And it scared him to death. Scared him as he'd never been scared before. He wanted more of it, wanted it so badly he could taste and feel and smell it. But if he allowed Lisbeth to get any closer to him, would she betray his trust? Or would he find out he'd been taken in by a woman who didn't care for him but only wanted to use him to further her own ends?

He couldn't afford another betrayal. He doubted he would survive another. Hell, after the last one, he'd headed straight for the bottle, and it had taken months to regain control of his life.

But as Ben thought about her kind and lovely eyes and felt yet again their pull, he wondered how long he could go on denying himself the chance to have what his heart so clearly wanted.

Chapter Fourteen

Ben warily eyed the formal wear of the past Marquesses of Calholm.

Barbara's ceilidh was in four days, and he had no appropriate clothes to wear, nor any desire to spend a fortune for clothes he might wear once or twice. Lisbeth had suggested that he investigate the wardrobes still containing clothes from the past masters of Calholm.

There were linen shirts and formal jackets, wide belts, and kilts made of Hamilton plaid. There were no trousers.

He took a kilt out of the wardrobe and studied the infernal thing. The butler stood by watching him. Worry that nothing would please tugged at the old man's lips. Ben knew Duncan remained puzzled by his habits, especially his refusal of a personal servant.

“How do you wear one of these?” he asked, not sure at all he wanted to know. What he did know was that kilts were honored possessions. Barred after the '45 by the English but revived in the early 1800's, in part because of Walter Scott's romantic novels, they were now part of Scottish national heritage. To wear American clothes would only make him more of an outsider. He didn't want that for Sarah Ann.

So he eyed what seemed to be rolls of worsted like a Texan eyed a rattlesnake: with extreme and respectful caution.

“Lord Jamie wa' not quite as tall as ye,” Duncan said, “but closer than the others.” He reached in and brought out another roll of red and blue plaid, handling it almost reverently as he unrolled all six yards of it.

“Ye must undress before I can fit it, sir.”

Ben was not a modest man. Modesty didn't survive long in a war, nor on long days on the trail with other lawmen. Yet, something about trying on a damned skirt in sight of a stiff, formally dressed butler was uniquely humiliating.

But hell, if he was staying in Scotland, he'd damned well better get used to it.

The thought stopped him. He hadn't realized it, but he really was considering staying.

Stunned, Ben dropped his trousers and underdrawers and submitted to the fitting. The butler showed him how the straps were fastened. The pleats went in the back, the “apron” in the front. Duncan eyed him from every possible angle and nodded. “It will suffice.”

Ben wasn't at all sure. He felt naked. “What do you wear under it?” Clearly his longjohns would not do.

The man looked at him as if he'd just committed sacrilege. “Why, naught,” he said.

“Naught?” Ben hoped he hadn't heard correctly.

“Naught,” the man insisted.

“Doesn't it get cold?”

Duncan cracked a thin smile. “Scots do no' get cold. They used to go into battle stark naked.”

“Must have disconcerted the hell out of their enemies,” Ben muttered.

Duncan's smile grew a little wider. “Aye.”

Ben grinned. “I'll remember that.” Then, moving to the nearby mirror, he looked at his reflection. He wondered whether he looked as ridiculous as he felt, whether he could ever parade in front of a hundred guests in this … skirt. But he had little choice.

He walked around the room several times, trying to gain some measure of comfort. A damned skirt. Worse, it was a dead man's skirt. What in the hell was he doing?

What would Lisbeth think?

Why did he even care?

By his third turn, he was beginning to wonder why men ever wore trousers.

“Ye look like a Scot.” Duncan said in a reverent tone.

“Thank you,” Ben said solemnly. “Can you help me get out of … this?”

Duncan's face wreathed into a smile. “'Tis fine to be of service, sir.”

The man was so clearly pleased to be of assistance, Ben felt regret, even guilt, at having rejected it so many times. He wondered whether he had hurt the other servants, as well. Still, Ben couldn't imagine anything worse than to have a servant hovering over him day and night. “I thank you,” he said. “Not only for helping me with this but for tolerating an American.”

Duncan straightened. “'Tis an honor, an' the young lass be a joy to this house. Maisie, Effie's sister, is making her a fine gown for the ceilidh.”

Ben nodded. “What else do I wear with the kilt?”

“I'll have everything ready for ye,” Duncan said.

Ben thought it might take more courage to wear those clothes at a ceilidh than it did to go against the Rebs at Vicksburg.

“My thanks again, Duncan.” He put on his trousers, feeling a great deal more like himself, wondering whether he would ever be comfortable as a Scottish gentleman.

Ben left the chamber, heading toward the kitchen, and Sarah Ann, whom he suspected was waiting impatiently for her afternoon ride. Annabelle, he hoped, was safely in the bedroom.

In the past few days, he'd made two important discoveries. First, Sarah Ann, like Lisbeth, was a born rider. Second, Annabelle was pregnant; her widening girth wasn't entirely due to the cream she was eating, after all. He decided she'd probably gotten pregnant by one of the mousers on the ship during the voyage over.

Annabelle was enough of a trial. How would he cope with a host of little Annabelles? Ben could see it all now. A half-dozen kittens or more waging war on poor Henry.

Kilts. Swirling mists. A woman who constantly mystified him. Now, a pregnant cat. And not just any pregnant cat but Annabelle! He wondered whether life would ever return to that state he used to think of as normal. Probably not with a little girl around, especially one. with unbounded love for all creatures.

Or with Lisbeth around. He'd seen little of her these past days. She was out most of the time with Shadow and Callum, and he made no attempt to join them. She was too dangerous to his peace of mind.