The Widow Vanishes (7 page)

His gut twisted with self-loathing. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have—"

"You didn't know." She hesitated before saying softly, "If it had to be anyone, I'm glad it was you."

"So glad that you bolted afterward," he muttered, rubbing his neck.

He didn't blame her. Hell, in her situation he might have done something worse than take his wallet. He deserved to be horsewhipped for taking advantage of her.

"I told you earlier—that part was fine." She turned the shade of a ripe peach. "In truth, I ran because it was
too
fine."

His brow furrowed. "You've lost me, pet."

"Beforehand, I told myself I would lie there and bear the experience. That lying with another man wouldn't be that different from doing so with Randall." She bit her lip and didn't quite meet his eyes. "But being with you
was
different."

Despite the situation—and his seething rage at her dead husband, who'd apparently been not just an arse but ham-handed as well—Will felt his chest swell. He couldn't help it.

"It was different for me as well, lass," he said gruffly.

Her lashes flickered upward, her gaze uncertain. "Truly? You're not just saying that?"

"I'm not just saying that." Looking down, he saw their fingers were still linked. It felt oddly natural. "But I still don't understand why a night of satisfaction would cause you to run."

"Because after you, I ... I didn't want to do that with anyone else."

Hell. Her candid words struck him like an arrow. The very core of him quivered in eager response. 'Twas as if she somehow knew his heart's desires and spoke to them with sweet, unaffected sincerity. To have such a beauty want him and only him ...

Seemed so with Laura too, didn't it? Look how that turned out. Don't be so easily manipulated—you hardly know Annabel ... and she's desperate. She'd say anything to gain protection.

He looked at Annabel's downcast head, her tumbling red-gold curls ... and he couldn't tell if he was being played for a fool. Everything about her seemed designed to overwhelm his good judgment. Their night of passion had floored him.

But afterward
, a cynical voice inside him said,
she stole from you, ran. She wouldn't be here now if you hadn't caught her and saved her from those blackguards in the alley.

He understood now the reason for Bella's actions. Certainly, he didn't blame her. But how could he trust that she had experienced what he had during their night of lovemaking—that she truly desired him ... and not just what he could do for her?

The wise and honorable thing to do would be to first help her with her debt. He would make it clear that he expected nothing in return. Then she wouldn't have to lie to him. When the business with Todd was over, she would be free to decide if she wanted to continue their association. In the meantime, he resolved to keep his hands off her. To not let lust—and other dangerous emotions—cloud his decisions.

He tipped her chin up. "You shan't be forced to do anything against your will again," he said. "I'll take care of the matter with Todd."

"Why are you helping me? You hardly know me."

She studied him, her plump bottom lip caught beneath her pearly teeth. God in heaven, he wished she wouldn't do that. It made his resolution not to touch her all the more challenging.

"I took advantage of you," he said. "I owe it to you to make things right."

"But I already said you didn't. As wrong as it was, I enjoyed what we did." Clearing her throat, she said, "What would you expect in return for your assistance?"

"Nothing," he replied firmly.

"If I've learned anything, McLeod, it's that one doesn't get something for nothing."

"In this instance, your well-being will be ample reward. If I can keep you out of trouble for more than a few hours, I'll count myself a lucky man."

"But how do you intend to deal with Todd? He won't accept anything less than—"

"I'll take care of it." Somehow, Will would find a way. Would do whatever was necessary to free her from Todd's devious clutches.

"I can't allow you to do that for me. I'll never be able to repay you," she protested.

"You won't have to. My honor tells me I owe you, Annabel, and I'm going to make things right, whether you like it or not."

"And you expect nothing in return?"

He heard the doubt in her voice, saw it in her eyes. He wondered how that gaze would look illuminated with joy instead of fear. Cupping her chin with one hand, he made a vow.

"From here on in, nothing happens between us," he said gravely. "Not unless you wish it to. Would you give me the honor, Bella, of starting over with you?"

His breath suspended as he awaited her answer. Would she trust him enough to begin anew?

"Alright," she whispered. "If that's what you want."

Relief and satisfaction filled him. "Aye, lass," he said.

'Twas a place to start.

TEN

William McLeod was proving that rarity of rarities: a man of his word.

Last night, after their talk, he'd treated her with the utmost courtesy, insisting that she take the bed whilst he slept on the couch. Snug beneath the coverlet, she hadn't been able to resist peeping in his direction. The Scot had looked like a cat stuffed in a birdcage with his brawny form spilling over the edges of the worn sofa, his large bare feet dangling off the end. She didn't know how he could possibly sleep in that position.

Given that she was almost a foot shorter than he, it'd seemed only fair that they switch places.

When she'd suggested this, he'd rumbled from the couch, "Being in the regiment trained me to sleep anywhere. Better me than you on this knobby monstrosity, lass."

She
had
been comfy in the bed. Yet she could see him tossing about, and it didn't seem right.

Tentatively, she'd said, "We could both sleep here. Keep to our own sides."

"Don't tempt the devil, Bella. Now close those bonny eyes and go to sleep."

Surprisingly, she'd fallen asleep within minutes. She'd woken feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. Months, mayhap. The hearty breakfast brought up by one of the maids perked her up further. She tucked into the poached eggs and rashers of bacon, slices of bread toasted to buttery perfection. She washed it all down with cups of tea laced with sugar and cream.

Catching McLeod's amused glance, she flushed. "I missed a meal yesterday—"

"No need to explain. I like a woman with an appetite." He replenished her plate with heaping seconds. "Never did understand why ladies eat like birds."

"I suppose that's because it's fashionable to be as slender as a swan."

Annabel recalled her aunt and uncle's unceasing lectures on the evils of gluttony. To them, anything more than porridge for breakfast and meat once a week had been grounds for excess. Her love of food had appalled them. Defiantly, she munched on another piece of bacon.

"Well, I like a lass with meat on her bones. Especially in the right places," McLeod said.

He seemed genuinely admiring—not leering or lascivious. Just ... honest?

Annabel's insides turned as gooey as a treacle tart fresh from the oven. Flustered, she finished her tea and told herself not to read too much into his compliments. McLeod was a good man—too good for the likes of her. While he was being courteous and generous, she reminded herself that he merely felt honor bound to help her. To assist the whore he'd slept with.

His request to start anew had given birth to bittersweet longing. As her trust of him slowly grew, so did her futile wishes. If only they had met under different circumstances. If only she were still an innocent, the unsullied daughter of a country physician. If only she wasn't indentured to a sadistic cutthroat who disemboweled those who crossed him.

If only, if only.

She didn't have the luxury of wishful thinking, not with her debt looming. As much as she hated the notion of McLeod "taking care" of it for her, she had no other choice: if she returned to Todd herself, she faced certain peril. McLeod's intervention was her best, mayhap
only
, chance for survival. She would have to rely on the kindness of this virtual stranger—and pray that she wasn't making yet another mistake.

"If you're done with breakfast, we'd best be off," McLeod said.

"Where are we going?"

"Not safe to leave you here by yourself while I parley with Todd," he said. "Todd knows where I live, so I can't risk bringing you there either. So I'm taking you to an old friend for the day while I sort the business out."

"Who is this friend of yours?"

"A man I used to work for," McLeod said. "Someone I trust."

A while later, a hired hackney brought them to the outskirts of London. As Bella alighted, she gawked at the new world: towering walls surrounded the docks, a fleet of ships crowding the water. Porters lugged crates and sacks ashore as they shouted good-naturedly to one another. The briny tang of the Thames and acrid smell of tar and coal smoke assailed her nose.

"Where are we?" she said.

"West India Docks. My friend works here now."

McLeod led her to an enormous warehouse close to the water. The large sign above the entrance announced the place as the headquarters of Fines & Company Shipping. Inside the cavernous space, Annabel took in the mountains of goods with wide eyes. There were sacks of spices piled high, crates of coffee stacked in pyramids. Porters stopped to ogle her, and several winked and whistled.

Scowling, McLeod put an arm around her waist. His glare scattered the workers.

"This way," he said, guiding her up a flight of stairs.

On the first floor, they were greeted by a clerk at a desk. Annabel glimpsed a long corridor behind him and what appeared to be a series of offices. Clearly the gatekeeper, the clerk swept his gaze over her, his brows arching. Flushing, she pulled the light shawl more tightly over her chest. Her ensemble had belonged to the innkeeper's wife, a kindly lady with less buxom proportions. As a result, the gown hugged Annabel's curves and swirled above her ankles, and she knew that if she achieved respectability, it was by a mere hair's breadth.

There had been no time to look for other clothes. Besides, she hadn't the coin to buy anything else, and she refused to be beholden to McLeod any more than necessary.

"Is Hunt in?" McLeod said curtly.

The clerk's gaze snapped to the Scot, and his nose rose into the air. "Mr. Hunt is not available to visitors. I can, however, schedule you in—next week perhaps. Who may I ask is inquiring?"

"I'll tell Hunt myself." Taking her arm, McLeod steered her toward the hallway.

The clerk threw himself in their path. "Mr. Hunt is busy. You must make an appointment—"

McLeod simply removed the sputtering man out of their way. The Scot strode forward, dragging Annabel in his wake whilst the clerk yapped at their heels like an infuriated spaniel. McLeod stopped at a door near the end of the hallway, pushed it open, and barged in.

"Hunt, sorry to intrude but I've an urgent—"

He stopped short, and Annabel collided into him. Her eyes widened at the scene. A large tawny-haired gentleman with a scarred cheek—presumably Mr. Hunt—stood at his desk ... and between the thighs of the blonde perched on its surface. His hands were buried in her hair, his lips skimming her arched throat.

The doxy gave a squeak and leapt off the desk. She hastily pulled up her bodice, shoving at the pins in her half-tumbled coiffure. Annabel saw that Hunt's trollop was remarkably pretty, with rounded sky-blue eyes and a blushing, heart-shaped face. She was dressed like a lady in a fashionable sprigged muslin that showcased her svelte figure.

"Bloody hell, don't you know how to knock, McLeod?" Hunt roared.

McLeod winced. "Er, pardon, Hunt." His jaw ruddy, he bowed and muttered, "Please accept my sincere apologies, Mrs. Hunt. I hope you'll forgive my hasty arrival."

Mrs.
Hunt? They'd caught Hunt
in flagrante
 ... with his own wife?

How very scandalous.

Annabel bit back a sudden giggle.

"Hello, Will." Mrs. Hunt's smile appeared genuine, if slightly abashed. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your, um, friend?"

McLeod rubbed the back of his neck. "Forgive my manners, madam. This is Mrs. Annabel Foster. Mrs. Foster, meet the Hunts."

Annabel curtsied.

"How lovely to meet you, Mrs. Foster. We so rarely see Will nowadays, and it's an added pleasure when he brings along a companion as well." Mrs. Hunt's eyes danced. "You must join us for tea. In fact, Mr. Hunt and I were just about to ring some up."

"Were we, love?" Hunt's dry reply was paired with a narrow-eyed gaze at McLeod.

To Annabel, the men were fashioned of the same mold with their formidable builds and auras of potent masculinity.

"Had an urgent matter to discuss," the Scot muttered. "Couldn't wait."

"This had better be good," Hunt said.

*****

Tea consisted of a strong, quality brew and an assortment of tarts and sandwiches. Seated next to McLeod on a couch, Annabel nibbled on the delicious fare as he explained the gist of the situation to the Hunts. Annabel was relieved that he omitted the details of how they met, saying only that her husband's debt to Todd had left her in a precarious situation. McLeod asked the Hunts to watch over her whilst he went to settle the business with Todd.

"It'll just be for a few hours. Todd wouldn't think to look here. Even if he did,"—McLeod sent Mr. Hunt a significant look, "he wouldn't cross you."

"Lily-livered bastard," Hunt said in disgust. "Wish to hell I hadn't sold him my club. Ain't heard nothing but complaints from those formerly in my employ. They say he's cruel and clutch-fisted to boot."

Annabel's eyes widened. Mr. Hunt had once owned the notorious gaming hell? That explained the scar and subtle air of ruthlessness that emanated from him despite his fine clothes and veneer of respectability. Yet how did a man like that end up married to a genteel lady like Mrs. Hunt? From the scene earlier, 'twas clear that the two had a passionate love match. Even now, they sat close to one another on the adjacent settee, and Mr. Hunt regarded his wife with a distinctly proprietary gleam in his eyes.