Chapter Five

“What the hell?”

The words thundered from Ben’s mouth before he realized that the soft body lying on top of his was female—a scantily clad, unarmed female of the grown-up variety.

She wriggled in his tight grasp, and the consequent stroking between them brought instant awareness to every nerve ending in his body, as if they’d been jolted awake from a long sleep. Ben cursed again, silently this time. He’d lived on the edge of danger so long that he didn’t know how to react like an ordinary human being. When had he become an animal, like those he’d hunted?

The woman on top of him had gone very still. Ben tried to force himself to relax, but it was a losing battle. The feel of her, her warmth and softness, seeped through his skin and into his blood. His body responded, and he knew she felt the response. The smallest whimper escaped her.

Though he couldn’t see her, he knew who she was. Perhaps it was the light scent she wore, or the slenderness of her form. Lisbeth Hamilton was lying full-length on top of him with damned little between them. And the blood pooling in his loins thickened at the thought.

He expected a scream, but all he heard was a sharp intake of breath. She wriggled again and, this time, he let her go. But when she slid across him, trying to rise, she increased the friction between their bodies. Ben had to stifle a groan. Fire ran through him like a wildfire racing through the Indian Territory prairie.

He rolled to his side and saw a flare of light on the floor. A flame. The candle that had fallen from her hand.

He shoved Lisbeth aside, reaching for the candle, grabbing it, clapping his other hand down onto the carpet to extinguish the fire. Then he sank back onto the bed with a sigh, and blew out the candle, plunging the room into total darkness.

Lisbeth lay, stunned, against the wall where she’d been tossed like a rag doll. She didn’t know whether to be outraged or grateful. Ben Masters had prevented a fire from spreading—but then, she wouldn’t have dropped the candle if he hadn’t attacked her.

Bloody hell. She had expected a sleeping child, and she’d encountered a volcano.

She pulled herself up to lean weakly against the wall, shoving the hair out of her eyes with a hand that trembled. In the next instant, she was attacked again—suddenly, inexplicably—by something flying out of the darkness. Something with claws. The claws dug through the light fabric of her nightdress and dressing gown, and she screamed.

“Dammit!” Masters erupted only inches away. “You want to wake the whole household?” he hissed.

A furry body walked over her, then disappeared in the blackness. She uttered an epithet that would have made a stableboy proud, and she heard Masters chuckle.

That chuckle brought her anger to a boiling point. Bloody man. This was still her house. Until Sarah Ann was officially acknowledged, she was still mistress of Calholm.

Then Masters said quietly, “I don’t think we want any visitors, do we?”

God’s toothache! The implications chilled her. Though she’d never been one for convention, there were certainly some situations that were beyond the pale—and this was one of them. She was in a man’s bedroom, wearing only a nightdress, and he was naked. Thoroughly naked. Not only that, but he was also in the throes of arousal, if what she felt just seconds ago was what she thought it was.

“I would suggest you put some clothes on,” she said, trying frantically to imbue her voice with authority. It came out more prim than anything else, and she shuddered at the ridiculous sound of it.

“You would suggest?” he repeated.

She wanted to slap the amusement out of his voice. He should be as appalled as she at the circumstances. He was obviously no gentleman, for he was making no haste at all to remedy the situation. He even seemed to be enjoying it.

She reached out a hand and was even more dismayed when she encountered a muscular human leg. She jerked back, hitting the wall again.

Mortified, she sought a way to restore some dignity to the absurd situation. Impossible. It was black as pitch—now that the candle was out—but in her mind’s eye she saw him. Naked. Close. Very close. Too close.

“The cat …” she managed weakly.

Another chuckle drifted across the space between them. But the chuckle turned suddenly to a curse, and she could only guess that he’d become the cat’s next target.

“Annabelle,” he warned in a deadly tone that Lisbeth knew she never wanted to hear directed toward her.

“Papa?” The terrified voice came from the next room.

“It’s all right, Sarah Ann,” he said. “It’s just Annabelle.”

Lisbeth sensed movement. Then a bulky form hovered over her.

“You stay here,” he ordered.

As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw Ben Masters lean down and pull on something. There was the sound of a match being struck, then the flickering flame of a kerosene lamp.

The cat fled back to the other room, and when her eyes returned to the American, he was standing in front of her, partially covered by a pair of trousers. The rest of him, however, was quite bare … and impressive. For a moment, she wanted to flee, too, like the cat, but something held her back.

It wasn’t his order that kept her there. She had never taken to orders very well. It was curiosity. The kind of curiosity that killed the cat, she reminded herself.

Still, she had to admit, the sight of the half-naked Ben Masters was not unpleasant. A tingle started in her spine and spread rapidly throughout the rest of her. Ben Masters’s body was lean and very, very hard. His chest looked as if it had been sculpted from marble, the scar that ran along his side a mere slip of the sculptor’s chisel. His hair was tousled, a lock falling onto his forehead, and his cheeks were covered with bristle. Never had she seen such stark masculinity. He dominated the small room like some giant, and his scowl would have frightened a host of angels. He muttered something she couldn’t quite hear, turned around, and disappeared into the other room, taking the lamp with him.

Paralyzed by indecision, Lisbeth stayed exactly where she was, uncertain whether or not her legs would carry her from the spot. She looked around. By the lamplight coming from the other room, she saw Ben Masters’s clothes neatly folded over the one chair in the room. There was no sense of the man other than the lingering power of his physical presence. But that was enough. More than enough.

Her gaze fell to the pistol on the bed. Another surprise. Far different from the antique dueling pistols she’d seen before, this one had a short barrel and plain handle. It looked businesslike. And well used.

She thought about the man who owned it—the speed of his reactions, the deceptive casualness of his manner, the strength and scarred condition of his bronze-toned body—and she came to one swift conclusion: Ben Masters was no mere solicitor. Not unless American solicitors were a great deal different from their Scottish counterparts.

So the question was, who and what was he?

Lisbeth took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Cautiously, she moved toward the door and unashamedly spied.

Masters was sitting on the big feather bed. His head was bent over, and he was whispering something she couldn’t hear. Then he tucked a comforter around Sarah Ann, whose small form hardly made a ripple in the huge bed. He waited a moment, then rose with a kind of grace that belied his limp, which she’d noticed had grown more pronounced throughout the day.

He moved swiftly toward her, carrying the lamp with him, and very quietly closed the door.

“She’s asleep,” he said curtly. “Now perhaps you will explain your intrusion.”

Lisbeth was very aware of his bare chest, his mussed hair, the expectant look in his eyes.

“I thought you would be … in the other room,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

His eyes turned very hard, as if her stumbling explanation was even worse than her invasion of his quarters.

“I thought Sarah Ann would be sleeping here,” she continued. “I only wanted to look in and make sure she was warm enough … and that she wasn’t frightened.”

His eyes held disbelief, and Lisbeth felt a chill. Suddenly, a horrifying idea flashed into her mind. “You don’t think I intended to hurt her?”

“I don’t think anything,” Masters replied harshly. “I just don’t like people sneaking around in the night.”

Lisbeth was outraged.

“This is my house, and I don’t sneak,” she said through clenched teeth. “Neither do I have animals so ill-bred they bite their hostess—and their bloody owner to boot.”

He was silent for a moment, then, amazingly, he began to laugh.

“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. All 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.”

“You’re gambling on that?”

“Jamie’s father gambled on that—and Jamie. It’s what they wanted.”

“And what you want?” he concluded.

“Yes,” she said defiantly.

He paused, then asked, “How did your husband die?”

The question hit hard. It was impertinent and none of his business, and yet she heard herself answer. “The girth on his horse slipped when he was jumping. His neck was broken.”

Masters finished tending her arm, and his hands dropped away from her, leaving her feeling vaguely bereft, empty. His fingers had felt good on her skin.

Hunting through the basket, Lisbeth found an herb mixture for burns. “Fair’s fair,” she said, grabbing his hand. She studied the burn again. Like her scratches, it wasn’t bad, but a poultice would help the pain.

“Stay here,” she ordered. She tried to sound as authoritative as he had.

Whether or not she had succeeded, he did as he was told. She added water from a pitcher to the herbs and brought the mixture back, then pressed a layer against the burn. His expression didn’t change, and she couldn’t tell whether the pain had eased or not.

His eyes were like ice and fire at the same time. They looked cool, but they seemed to burn right through her. She wished the herb poultice cured that sort of pain, too.

“Thank you,” he said, somewhat stiffly.

“You’re welcome,” she said, thinking he didn’t look grateful at all. He looked, instead, disconcerted. Had anyone ever taken care of him before? Had Sarah Ann’s mother?

The questions nagged at her.

Masters stood. “Can I expect more midnight excursions?” he asked with that crooked smile.

“Not from me. Annabelle is too good a watch cat.”

“What about Henry?”

“He’s probably sound asleep on my bed.”

“Smart dog.”

Suddenly the air was alive with innuendo, the room crackling with electricity. Another minute of this and she’d be lost in the fog of intimacy surrounding them.

He touched her cheek. “It’s been an … interesting evening.”

Her legs were turning to water. “Yes.”

“I think I might enjoy Scotland more than I thought.”

“It’s really … quite beautiful, particularly when the hills are covered with heather.” She was babbling. She never babbled.

“You should see Texas in the spring, and Colorado in the fall.”

God’s toothache, she was being consumed by his eyes. She felt compelled to respond. “But it can’t be grander than the loch nearby.”

“The lake we can see from the window?” he asked, winning her nod of approval. “I’ve promised to take Sarah Ann there. Can you guide us?”

Pleasure suffused her, lazily and sensuously.

“I’ll have cook prepare some Scottish delicacies. Scones and cream and jam.”

“Sarah Ann will like that.”

She wished he would say he’d like it, too, but he didn’t. Despite the warm sensuality of his words, he kept his distance emotionally. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to bridge the gap between them.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t let wayward feelings get in the way of what she hoped would be a sound business relationship. Feelings were treacherous.

“Good night,” Lisbeth said. “I’ll quench the lamps.”

Masters nodded, hesitated only a moment, then made for the stairs. She stayed behind, eyeing the brandy bottle. She had never taken a drink alone.

The circumstances could be considered unusual, though, unusual enough to justify a drink for medicinal purposes. She poured herself a glass and gulped it, feeling the fiery liquid sear a path to her stomach. It didn’t help at all.

Disgusted with herself, Lisbeth returned to her room. Henry was oblivious to the world, including the recent attack on her person—and her emotions. He was, instead, snoring quite happily on top of her bed. He barely lifted his head in acknowledgment as she lowered the lamp she’d taken from the kitchen and sat next to him.

“Useless dog,” she complained affectionately.

He moaned. Henry moaned a lot, sometimes with pleasure, sometimes in response to her speaking to him. She liked to believe he understood a lot of what she said, though she knew he just plain adored being talked to.

She threw her arms around him, and he shivered with delight and moaned again.

“What do you think of him?” she asked.

He moaned.

“That’s no answer.”

He licked her hand sympathetically.

“That’s more like it.” She hugged him, happy for his uncomplicated presence—a great relief after the very complicated presence of Ben Masters. She wondered whether she would get any sleep at all this night.