Marshal And the Heiress
“Any kind of distraction. Henry prowled behind her, unintimidated by his brief scolding. He knew he was easily forgiven; and she needed his company.
She had never known a man to laugh at himself before. It had nothing to do with pride—or perhaps everything. Ben Masters had pride: it was evident in the way he held himself, in his air of self-confidence. That was the difference. Only a man entirely comfortable with himself could find humor in being sprawled on the floor clutching a cat and being sat upon by a dog.
The image made her smile again. In that moment, he’d seemed so heroic to her.
Henry the Eighth moaned for attention, and she leaned down to give him a hug. “You’re a renegade, too,” she told him, “but an endearing one.” He buried his large head in the crease between her breasts.
“Ah, the rewards of roguery.”
She stood up abruptly at the sound of a wry masculine voice. Ben Masters had changed to a comfortable-looking, well-worn pair of denim trousers and a cotton shirt.
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