Marshal and the Heiress Read Online Free Page B

household, but he went every place she did, and the American would simply have to live with that. She would fight for three things: Calholm’s tenants, her dog, and her horses.
    â€œMayhap the American will not.” She shrugged. “And mayhap he likes dogs.”
    â€œNot that great ugly dog,” Barbara said and shuddered.
    â€œHe’s not ugly,” Lisbeth protested on Henry’s behalf, not that Henry cared. She did, though. He was her best friend. Her only friend. She had always been an onlooker, often an unwilling one. She was that now, in this home. Calholm had never really been hers, not even for the brief time when she was its official mistress.
    She soon would no longer have even nominal control. The new heiress—a mere child—would have the estate in entitlement until she gave birth to a son. That, at least, was the most prevalent interpretation of the mishmash of wills and entitlements.
    If only Jamie had lived …
    â€œThe American might even sell that scruffy animal of yours,” Barbara baited.
    â€œOr make you live on your allowance,” Lisbeth retorted. Angry at herself for rising to the bait, weary of the conflict and speculation, she started for the door. “I’m going to take Shadow out.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t ride by yourself,” Hugh protested with rare concern.
    Lisbeth looked at him suspiciously but saw no guile in his eyes.
    â€œRemember what happened to Jamie,” he added.
    How could she ever forget? That day would always be clear in her memory: Black Jack, Jamie’s favorite horse, limping home during a hunt; the search for Jamie, and finally the discovery of Jamie’s body; the magistrate’s conclusion that he had fallen. She had never fully accepted it. Jamie had been a superb rider.
    â€œI won’t,” she said bitingly. “I saddle my own horse now.” The implication hung like a sword over them. She’d never directly accused anyone, but she’d expressed doubts about the verdict of accidental death.
    God’s toothache, but she needed fresh air. It was still an hour before dark, and Lisbeth hurried upstairs, changed to a pair of boy’s britches and a shirt, and ran down the back stairs to the stable. She didn’t want to encounter Hugh’s and Barbara’s disapproving expressions over her attire, but she’d discovered long ago that these clothes were much more effective while training and jumping horses. But she was careful about when and where she wore them.
    Shadow was eager. She quickly cinched the light racing saddle. Callum Trapp, Calholm’s trainer, and the grooms had apparently retired for the day, and she was thankful. She wanted to be alone. She wanted freedom.
    She gave the horse his head and allowed him to race down the road as the cold fall wind pummeled her. A familiar exhilaration filled her, the pure joy of the moment. She wouldn’t think about tomorrow or the next day, about the impending arrival of her niece and the American and what it might mean for Calholm, for her own dreams.
    She could only hope that the man wasn’t an opportunist who would drain the estate’s assets. She couldn’t quite suffocate that thread of fear, though. Mr. Alistair said the guardian was a solicitor, and her experience with solicitors—with the exception of Mr. Alistair—had proved them to be money suckers and only slightly above criminals.
    Lisbeth turned Shadow toward a fence. Elation surged through her as the great stallion lifted and soared over the barrier without shying. On landing, she slowly pulled the gray to a halt, then leaned over his neck, stroking him and murmuring endearments. Shadow arched his neck as if to say he could do it any time he wanted.
    â€œYou’re a big fraud,” she muttered.
    Henry the Eighth barked from behind the fence. It was a decidedly disgruntled bark, and Lisbeth shook her head. Henry was probably big enough to make