The Widow Vanishes Page 10

  She smoothed a thick brown curl off his forehead and kissed his cheek.

  "I love you, McLeod. One day you'll understand," she whispered.

  She got up from the bed. Took one last look at her sleeping lover before slipping from his bedchamber and out the front door. With steadfast purpose, she made her way toward the destiny she could no longer escape.

  Goodbye, my love. Forgive me.

  SEVENTEEN

  Will surfaced, pushing through sleep thicker than mud. He blinked, his vision blurry in the darkened chamber. He heard a rustle.

  "Annabel?" he said groggily.

  "Not the last time I checked," a deep, haughty voice replied.

  Will jolted upright, air hissing through his teeth. Shock overwhelmed the pain as he caught sight of the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing in the shadows. Despite the dimness, there was no mistaking the black hair and icy jade eyes. The pale, chiseled features. The coldly amused expression that Will detested with every fiber of his being.

  "What the fuck are you doing here, Strathaven?" he growled.

  His brother smiled—a pulling back of the lips that conveyed no amusement. "If you'd paid any attention to my letters you would have expected me. But perhaps, Peregrine, you've forgotten how to read?"

  "It's Will. And I haven't forgotten anything," Will said flatly. "Which is why I tossed your bluidy missives into the fire."

  Strathaven's eyes narrowed. "Your manners haven't improved with age. Pity."

  "How the hell did you get in here?"

  "Your housekeeper let me in. Charming lady, Mrs. Ramsay."

  "It's Ramsbottom," Will said through his teeth. Goddamn Strathaven—the rake could charm the scales off a snake. "What did you say to her?"

  "That I am Strathaven." His grace's arrogance shone through the dimness. "And I've come to discuss important matters with my heir."

  "I'm not your bleeding heir—"

  Strathaven stepped out of the shadows. For the first time, Will saw the black armband worn over his brother's black coat. And another jolt of shock travelled through him.

  "Your ... boy?" he said hoarsely.

  The faintest flicker passed through those hard green eyes. The sharp-edged jaw tautened. "Charlie is dead."

  Despite everything, sorrow pierced Will's chest. His nephew had been but a wee lad. He'd never met little Charlie … and now he never would. Regret flooded him for the past which had made him a stranger to his own kin.

  "I am … sorry, brother." He didn't know what else to say. Couldn't imagine how such a loss would affect Strathaven and the duchess.

  "Are you?"

  The drawling tone was a slap to the face, raising Will's hackles. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "You're the heir to a duchy now. An enviable position."

  "I don't want anything to do with the bluidy title—or with you." Familiar anger rushed through Will. "And I'd never wish anyone ill for the privilege, least of all an innocent child."

  Strathaven's dark lashes veiled his gaze. When he raised them, his eyes were chilling. "The fact remains that you are now my heir. A stroke of luck for you."

  "Bugger you," Will snarled.

  The past repeated itself: the bullying, unwarranted attacks by his older sibling. Alaric had endlessly baited him, delivering barbs with detached amusement whilst Will struggled haplessly with hot rage. Nothing had changed—Alaric was the same controlling bastard he'd always been.

  "Your time in the regiment did nothing for your manners," the duke said.

  "Why are you here? You and Lau—the duchess could have another child. You don't need me for anything."

  A pause. "She's dead, too."

  Will's breath stuttered.

  "She and Charlie were on a ship. It went down in a storm," Strathaven said tonelessly.

  Holy hell. Bewildered, Will tried to comprehend that the woman he'd once loved was dead. Laura, young and beautiful—full of life. Laura, a faithless opportunist. He put a stopper on the old emotions—because they no longer mattered. Paled in comparison to the double loss his brother had suffered ...

  He teetered between anger and regret. If things were different between him and Alaric, he could offer support. If Alaric had treated him with anything resembling decency, he would be able to express his sorrow over Charlie and Laura's untimely deaths.

  But the state of affairs between him and Alaric would never change. Save for those early childhood days almost too long ago to remember, Alaric had always treated him with hostility. Now neither of them would ever know what it was like to have a real brother.

  Will didn't want to give his condolences again. Since he could think of nothing else to say, he remained silent.

  "Now that the reason for your animosity is gone, I see no reason why you cannot assume the duties of my heir," Strathaven said.

  "Your wife and son are dead—and that's what you're concerned about?" Will said incredulously.

  A muscle leapt along the duke's jaw, yet he continued in unperturbed tones as if Will hadn't spoken. "You and I will need to reacquaint ourselves. I'll need to know what my heir has been up to. This Annabel you called for earlier—your mistress?"

  Annabel. His brother's sudden, astonishing appearance had distracted Will from her absence.

  "You haven't seen her?" Will said suspiciously.

  "I've not had the pleasure," the duke drawled.

  A premonitory chill ran up Will's spine. He reached over and yanked the bell.

  Within minutes, Mrs. Ramsbottom appeared. Will saw with annoyance that the stalwart housekeeper actually flushed when Strathaven, the bluidy rakehell, bestowed a faint smile upon her.

  "Where's Annabel?" Will said abruptly.

  The housekeeper's brow pleated. "I'm not certain, sir. I haven't seen her since early this morning. I assumed she was in here with you."

  Will's foreboding spread. This was out of character for Annabel. She wasn't the type to leave him when he was injured. "She didn't leave word?"

  Mrs. Ramsbottom shook her head. "Could she have gone to Mrs. Hunt's?"

  He'd soon find out. Will pushed himself up from the bed—and fire blazed over his left shoulder. Breathing hard, he ignored it, stumbling toward the dressing room to get his clothes.

  "Lord above, you've reopened your wound." The housekeeper's agitated tones followed him. "You must get back in bed, sir. I'll ring for the doctor."

  Will glanced down to see crimson blossoming across the front of his sleep shirt. Damn, the blood had soaked through his bandage. Wooziness crashed over him, and he gripped the nearest surface to steady himself. To try to clear his head. To think—where was Annabel? How could she have vanished again?

  Her voice floated to him through the waves of lightheadedness: If the situation were reversed, I'd do the same for you ... Whatever it takes to protect you ...

  His insides turned to ice.

  Bluidy hell—no. She couldn't have.

  "Have to find her," he gritted out.

  "You're in no shape to go anywhere!"

  He pushed past Mrs. Ramsbottom and yanked open the wardrobe—staggered against the door as pain seized him, splitting his vision into undulating lines.

  Cold tones sliced through Will's haze. "Well, Peregrine, it seems that I arrived just in time after all."

  "Don't have ... time to deal with you, Strathaven," he said through his clenched jaw. He had to get to Annabel, couldn't let anything befall her—

  "You don't have much of a choice. Clearly you're not getting anywhere on your own." The duke approached, gave the contents of the wardrobe a disdainful glance. He picked up a clean shirt between finger and thumb. "Dear God, I suppose this will have to do."

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "It would seem that I am helping you. It is what brothers do, isn't it?"

  Will eyed him warily. "Not you. You've never given a damn about anyone but yourself."

  "For your sake—and that of the mysterious Annabel—let us hope that
I have changed." His grace quirked a dark eyebrow. "Now are we, or aren't we, going to fetch the lady in question?"

  *****

  Hands clenched at her sides, Annabel faced the viper in his gilt and velvet-lined nest.

  "You've got bollocks for a wench, I'll give you that." Todd hadn't bothered to rise from his desk, regarding her with a snake-like stare. "Why should I release McLeod from our bargain?"

  "Because it is my debt and I am here to pay it," she said.

  "Should have thought of that before you ran. Before you tried to cheat me out of what was mine, you little bitch."

  Annabel quaked at the cold menace of the cutthroat's words, yet she raised her chin and held firm. "I was wrong. But I am here now and willing to work off what I owe. McLeod has nothing to do with this."

  "What makes you think I won't just slit your throat for the trouble you've caused?"

  "You could. You have the power to do so." Mustering an air of nonchalance, she said, "But why bother with the mess when you could turn a clean profit?"

  Todd's gaze penetrated her. "Hard little piece, ain't you?"

  "I'm just stating the facts, Mr. Todd. I am ready and willing,"—she had to force the words out—"and entirely at your disposal."

  Heartbeats passed in silence. Perspiration gathered beneath Annabel's bodice as she willed the cutthroat to accept her bargain.

  Take me, you bastard. Take me—in exchange for McLeod.

  'Twas the only way she could protect the Scot from further harm. For he would continue to hunt Harding, endangering his own life in order to rescue her. He'd almost died last night. She couldn't allow the man she loved to be injured again—possibly killed—because of her.

  Todd's sudden bark of laughter shattered the silence. "Lying cunt. You ain't hard at all—you're soft as a bleeding muffin over that overgrown Scotsman."

  Fear sliced through Annabel. "I don't know what you mean—"

  Todd's fist pounded the desk. "Don't lie to me, you damned hussy!" She swallowed as he came from the desk, circling her. "You look different. Got a moonstruck gleam in your eye—and the look of a woman well tupped. You're a fool in love, and don't you deny it."

  "That changes nothing. I'll do whatever you want. Just let McLeod go," she said desperately.

  "That changes everything." A cunning smile tucked into Todd's round face, making him look like an evil Cupid. "Before, I was considering having you gutted ... but now I won't. No, I believe I shall let you live."

  Annabel's belly lurched at the casual mention of her murder. "Wh-why?"

  "Because there are more enjoyable forms of torment than death. Such as watching a woman in love destroy her dreams—while the idiot she fancies is helpless to do anything about it." Unholy glee lit Todd's eyes. "I shall punish two birds with one stone."

  His words drilled into the dark pit of her fears. Terror welled, yet she told herself that it changed nothing. She'd accept any pain to spare McLeod.

  "What do you want from me?" she said.

  "You want a bargain? You shall have one," Todd said. "I will let McLeod go free—injured and a failure to boot, what good is he to me?"

  "You will?" Her limbs began to tremble. "Thank you—"

  "In return," he said, "you will participate in the festivities this evening."

  Annabel steeled herself. She'd expected this. Her eyes trained on the ground, she pushed the words through her cinched throat. "I'll ... entertain whomever you wish."

  "Oh, it won't be as easy as that."

  Her gaze snapped up.

  "We're going to have an auction tonight." The villain beamed with twisted delight. "And you, Annabel, will be the main attraction."

  EIGHTEEN

  Will's back met the brick wall with an agonizing thud. As pain sizzled through his shoulder, he struggled to breathe and not cast his accounts. The guards in the dark alley behind the gaming hell cornered him.

  "Plenty more where that came from." Jenkins, the leader of the brutes, smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Mr. Todd don't like failures. Be off with ye, McLeod, or I'll finish off what Harding started."

  The world wavered. Will held on and gritted out, "Not going without Mrs. Foster. I know she's here."

  She had to be.

  Given his injury, Will had had no choice but to accept his brother's help. The two of them had gone to the Hunts' residence first. A surprised Mrs. Hunt had reported that she hadn't seen Annabel since before Will's injury. Dread pounding in his veins, Will had rushed to The Underworld; he'd ordered Strathaven to stay in the carriage whilst he went to parley with Todd. Shrugging, the duke had ordered his footman to serve him champagne while he waited.

  "'Ear that, fellows? Cove thinks Mr. Todd is going to let the centerpiece go," Jenkins said, eliciting guffaws from his cadre of ruffians.

  Centerpiece—of what? What did the bastard mean ...?

  "Why, 'aven't you 'eard, McLeod?" Jenkins pushed his beefy, whiskered face within inches of Will's. "Your precious widow's going on the auction block tonight. Some lucky gent is going to own the strumpet for the evening."

  Red splattered across Will's vision. With a roar of rage, he charged Jenkins, knocking the man to the ground, plowing his fists into the other's face over and over until he was yanked back. He thrashed against the three men who held him. Groaning, Jenkins remained sprawled on the gravel.

  Another guard stepped up. Shoved the end of a truncheon into Will's wounded shoulder.

  Will doubled over, his world exploding with pain.

  "Compliments of Mr. Todd," the guard snapped. "The master don't like failures. Consider yourself lucky he don't want you dead. Men, get this bastard out of 'ere—and make sure 'e stays out."

  Rough hands dragged Will out of the alley, tossing him into a gutter.

  Will teetered on the edge of consciousness. Annabel ... have to get to her ... Just as the white light of oblivion shimmered on the horizon, gleaming black Hessians blocked the view.

  "Successful parley, was it? You always were too stubborn to ask for help, Peregrine." The arrogant voice jerked Will back. A groan scraped from his throat as he was hauled up none too gently. "Just like the time you insisted on following me and climbing over the McGregor's fence on your own. Broke your bloody arm." The tone turned as cold and hard as steel. "Da whipped me for leading you into trouble."

  Hazy memories of a swaying wheat field flitted behind Will's eyelids. The thrill of trespassing, ripe apples weighing down his trouser pockets as he ran, laughing, trying to keep up with his older brother ... The sky swirled, darkening into the flickering cavern of a barn. The lamp in his hand shaking as he saw them: Laura bent over a bale of hay and Alaric behind her, their cries of pleasure detonating in his head ...

  When Will opened his eyes, he was in a carriage sprawled across the navy velvet squabs. A footman observed him from the opposite bench.

  "You're awake, sir," the servant said with obvious relief.

  Immediate panic gripped him. Annabel—

  "Please have a care, sir! Your wound's still bleeding, and I've only just bandaged—"

  "To hell with my wound." When Will tried to get up, spots dazzled him. He collapsed against the cushions, the cabin whirling around him. With his last ounce of energy, he managed, "Where's ... my brother?"

  "His grace went into the club, sir." The footman's face split into two floating images. "Said he has something of yours to fetch."

  Strathaven ... Annabel, the auction ...

  "No." He jerked in denial, in sudden fear. What did Strathaven intend …? Too late. The darkness of past and present rushed over him, and though he struggled, he was dragged back into the undertow.

  *****

  "You'll do fine, dearie," Mrs. Clive said. "Never mind the crowd. Anchor your eyes to one place, and that'll keep you steady."

  Annabel nodded numbly, the bawd's words dimmed by the shouts and whistles of the rowdy audience just beyond the red curtain. She knew that she was trembling because of the faint pinging of the coi
n-strung chains circling her wrists and ankles. Goose pimples prickled over the skin exposed by her lurid costume.

  At Todd's command, she'd been outfitted as Salome. Diaphanous, rainbow-hued scarves wound around her, clinging to her curves and revealing almost as much as they hid. A turquoise chiffon veil hid the lower half of her face, and she looked out at the world through kohl-rimmed eyes and soot-coated lashes. Within moments, she would be paraded on stage and sold off to a stranger for the night.

  She felt lightheaded. Sick to the stomach. She had the impulse to bolt, to run as fast and far as her jingling legs could take her—but where would she go? There was no place she could hide from Todd. And McLeod ... he would not be safe until she'd completed the bargain she'd made with the devil.

  You must do this. You must have the courage to see this through. For McLeod.

  Strains of sultry, exotic music filtered through the drapes.

  "Almost time, dove," Mrs. Clive said. "Listen for the cue."

  Todd's voice boomed above the music. "Valued patrons, tonight I have a special treat for you: an exotic dance to tempt even the most jaded of appetites. And after the performance, the lovely temptress will be sold for the night's pleasure to the highest bidder. Now without further ado, may I present ... Salome in the flesh."

  Mrs. Clive nudged Annabel forward. "Go, luvie. The quicker it's done, the quicker it's over."

  Inhaling deeply, Annabel stepped through the curtain ... and froze.

  Dozens of gentlemen surrounded the stage. Members of the ton, by the looks of their expensive clothes and plump, pampered faces. At the sight of her, they raised their glasses and stomped their champagne-buffed boots. Standing on a stool behind a nearby podium, Todd gave her a warning wave forward.

  The music swelled—yet Annabel remained rooted, her bare feet bolted by panic to the wooden platform. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Hoots and leering comments pelted her.

  "Salome in the flesh, you say? What flesh? The wench is bundled more thoroughly than a nun!"