Marshal and the Heiress by Patricia; Potter Page A

met.
    â€œMaybe,” she admitted. She could have lied, but it went against her grain. Nor would he have believed protestations of innocence.
    â€œBelieve 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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œShe’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?”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œDon’t,” he said suddenly.
    She was bewildered. “Don’t what?”
    â€œDon’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?”
    â€œA lawyer,” he corrected, smiling slightly at her disbelief. “I am.”
    â€œDo all American lawyers sleep with guns?”
    â€œIf they have unhappy clients,” he said lazily.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œA lady’s hand?” he shot back.
    â€œAs you’ve probably noticed, I’m not always a lady.”
    â€œIt 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