The Widow Vanishes Page 6

  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.

  What would it be like to be so desired? Annabel wondered. So cherished ... and loved?

  She slid a glance beneath her lashes at McLeod, and her heart gave a wistful squeeze. It would be easy to fall for the Scot, a strong, noble warrior who'd protected her time and again. If only she were his equal. If only she'd met him before Randall, when she'd still had a claim to virtue and honor ...

  "Of course Mrs. Foster is welcome to stay here," Mrs. Hunt was saying. "I'd love some company. Tell me, Mrs. Foster, do you like to read?"

  "Er, yes." Annabel blinked at the change in topic. The intensity of the last few days had diminished her capacity for polite conversation. "I read novels mostly. My taste is of a frivolous persuasion, I'm afraid."

  Mrs. Hunt beamed. "Mine as well. Who are your favorite authors?"

  As it had been some time since Annabel had had the luxury of sitting back with a book, she had to think for a moment. "I enjoy Mrs. Radcliffe and Mrs. Reeves," she said hesitantly. "More recently, I discovered the work of a new author by the name of P.R. Fines—"

  Annabel jumped at Mrs. Hunt's shriek.

  "Did you hear that?" Mrs. Hunt's guinea-bright curls bobbed as she turned to her husband.

  "Hard to miss it, buttercup." Mr. Hunt's mouth twitched. "She said it as plain as day."

  Mrs. Hunt's gaze swung to McLeod. "You didn't put her up to it, did you, Will?"

  McLeod held his hands up. "Topic never came up."

  "What topic?" Annabel said, bewildered. "Did I say something wrong?"

  "On the contrary," Mr. Hunt said. "You just paid my wife a compliment."

  "The nicest thing anyone could say," Mrs. Hunt added.


  "Oh ... well. I'm glad." What on earth? Annabel wondered.

  "You see, my dear,"—Mrs. Hunt's eyes twinkled merrily—"I am P. R. Fines."

  Annabel gawked at the pretty young woman. "You're the famous novelist?"

  Mrs. Hunt nodded, smiling.

  "I've read all of your books," Annabel blurted. "Priscilla is the most brilliant, intrepid of heroines. And the ending of your last book, when she and her husband got trapped in that catacomb with the mummified remains and the ancient curse—why, I've been waiting with bated breath for the next installment!"

  "It was delayed by the birth of our son Garrett. I've recently started writing again," the authoress said, "and I must say this book is even better than the others."

  "My wife is nothing if not modest." Mr. Hunt grinned when his lady made a face at him. "Well, McLeod, it appears that the chits will have plenty to prattle about. I'll escort them home—and keep them out of trouble."

  Mrs. Hunt tilted her head saucily at her husband. "Up for a challenge, are you, sir?"

  "Minx," Hunt murmured.

  "Obliged to you both," McLeod said. "I'll fetch Mrs. Foster as soon as I'm done."

  The pleasantness of the moment burst like a bubble. Panic returned, and Annabel clutched the Scot's sleeve. "Todd's dangerous. You'll be careful, won't you?"

  "Always am." A smile softened McLeod's craggy countenance. "Don't fret, beauty—I can handle the dodgy bastard."

  He picked up her hand, his firm lips brushing her knuckles, and longing pulsed over her. A mad desire to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him goodbye. But it wasn't her place, and she didn't wish to embarrass him in front of his friends. Throat cinched, she watched him go off with Mr. Hunt.

  "I wouldn't worry about Will," Mrs. Hunt said brightly. "He's more than capable of taking care of himself. Why, Mr. Hunt always said Will was one of the finest guards who ever worked for him."

  "Yes, of course, ma'am," Annabel mumbled.

  Another worry joined all the others. Life had taught her that none judged virtue as harshly as other women, and she must appear shabby and ill-bred indeed to the fine lady. Her ambiguous "friendship" with McLeod left much to speculation. And her cast-off clothes and debt to a cutthroat certainly wouldn't elevate her in anyone's estimation.

  Cheeks heating, she said, "I'm sorry to be a bother, Mrs. Hunt. You mustn't mind me—"

  "May we be Percy and Annabel?" the other interrupted.

  "Er, yes, if you'd like—"

  "Excellent. Now I have a favor to ask, Annabel: I've done an initial draft of my book and would dearly love another's opinion."

  "You want me to read your book?"

  "Only if you don't mind." Percy smiled sheepishly. "I understand if it's too much to ask—"

  "I'd love to," Annabel said in a rush. "In fact, I'd be honored."

  Percy's eyes danced. "I'm so glad Will brought you today. I sense a kindred spirit."

  'Twas impossible to resist the other's cheery kindness. Yet as Annabel tentatively smiled back, she wondered what Percy would think of her shameful history. A vise clamped around her heart.

  She'd never be free from the past, from the choices she'd made.

  Anxiety swamped her. She could only pray that McLeod wouldn't come to harm because of her misdeeds. She'd never forgive herself if anything happened to him.

  Please, God, protect him. He's decent and honorable—a man I can't help but ... trust.

  ELEVEN

  "You want to do what?" Malcolm Todd bellowed.

  "You heard me. I want to pay off Mrs. Foster's debt," Will said.

  They were in one of the club's private reception rooms. The cutthroat sat on a throne-like chair upon a carpeted dais whilst Will stood before him several steps down. Even so, Will was eye level with the little despot. Todd bristled with rage; the pair of armed footmen flanking him tensed in readiness.

  "I sent you to find the wench," Todd hissed. "Yet you come to me empty-handed—and you have the bollocks to try to negotiate her release?"

  "You didn't tell me Annabel Foster was paying off her husband's debts," Will shot back. "If I had known she was an innocent widow, I wouldn't have agreed to hunt her down."

  "Got you wrapped around her little finger, hasn't she? The bitch must have a sweet cunt," Todd sneered.

  "Do not speak of her that way," Will said, his teeth grinding.

  Todd's eyes narrowed. "I'll speak as I wish. You're interfering in my business."

  "I'm not asking for any favors. I'll pay her debt, fair and square."

  A silence. The cutthroat said, "Yes, you will pay."

  The other's calm, thoughtful tone prickled Will's nape. Though his muscles bunched, he said evenly, "I'll have the five hundred quid to you by the morrow."

  "I don't want your money, McLeod. Mrs. Foster owed me five hundred pounds. If you wish to take on her debt, the price for you is different," Todd said silkily.

  His instincts had told him that this wouldn't be easy. "What do you want?"

  "Harding."

  Will's gut knotted at the mention of Todd's foe. "I'm not a murderer."

  "I don't want you to kill the bugger. That pleasure will be mine—one I'll savor once I get my hands on the wily bastard." Todd's smile was razor-thin. "Harding surrounds himself with an entourage, one that a fly would have difficulty getting past. Which is where you come in."

  Goddamnit. Will did not want to get involved in the bloodbath between the cutthroats.

  "You trail him and report his comings and goings back to me. You find the chink in his armor and lead my men to him." Todd examined the manicured fingernails of one hand. "Know this, McLeod: if you should fail to deliver Harding, I will collect from Mrs. Foster—in the same fashion that I collected from her husband."

  Ice spread through Will's veins. "Are you threatening her?" he growled.

  "I don't make threats—I make promises." Todd's eyes gleamed with vicious intent.

  "You stay away from her."

  Todd's guards closed ranks as Will surged forward. Metal scraped as the brutes pulled their swords, pointing them at Will. Fists balled, he glared over the guards at Todd's smirking face.

  "Temper, temper," the gaming hell owner said. "Mrs. Foster's fate lies in your hands: deliver Harding to me, and I'll set her free. Refuse my offer and ... let's just say you will need those exceptional tracking skills of yours to find her. Piece by pretty piece."

  Will's chest heaved. This was no empty threat. Todd was more than capable of such cruelty: in fact, the bastard enjoyed it. The thought of Annabel being hurt, being killed ... As much as Will hated being controlled by the cutthroat, hated being anyone's man but his own, he had no choice.

  "I give you Harding," he said, "and you will leave Mrs. Foster and me in peace."

  Todd waved his brutes back into position. His smile had a crafty edge. "We have ourselves a bargain, McLeod."

  *****

  Will went to fetch Annabel from the Hunts' residence, a townhouse in a fashionable Mayfair square. He kept his demeanor calm despite his inner turmoil. He'd done what needed to be done. He didn't regret the deal he'd made for Annabel's freedom and safety. When the butler led him through a gleaming marble foyer and toward the drawing room, he fixed a smile on his face.

  Entering the elegantly appointed room, his smile deepened unexpectedly into a true grin. Annabel sat next to Mrs. Hunt on a green settee. Neither took any notice of him as they had their heads bent over the imp sitting on Annabel's lap. The wee lad had a wild mop of blond curls and stared up at Annabel with big blue eyes. His little fist grasped a loose auburn tress.

  "Wed," the tot announced.

  "Red," his mama corrected. "Annabel's hair is red, Garrett."

  "Wed," the lad said with emphasis and shoved the curl into his mouth.

  "Garrett, do not eat our guest's hair!" Mrs. Hunt scolded. With a practiced motion, she whisked her offspring off Annabel's lap. "I'm ever so sorry. I fear that he may be part canine—he likes to gnaw on
everything, including his older sister. I count myself fortunate that Pippa hasn't bitten him back."

  "It's quite alright," Annabel said, smiling. "He's adorable."

  "He is, isn't he?" Mrs. Hunt ruffled her son's hair.

  "Man!" Garrett pointed a chubby finger in Will's direction.

  Annabel jumped to her feet. The shimmering relief in her violet eyes loosened the knots in Will's chest. Without thinking, he opened his arms, and she rushed into them. His lips found hers naturally. Their kiss tasted of welcome, reunion, relief. For several moments, they clung, mouths pressed together, breathing one another. Then she buried her face in his waistcoat.

  "I've been so worried," she said in a muffled voice. "Are you alright?"

  The rightness of holding her dissipated some of his tension.

  "I'm fine. Everything is settled," he said against her hair.

  Shivering, she leaned back to look at him. "How—how did things go with Todd?"

  "It's done and over with. I'll explain the details later," he said.

  She nodded, her eyes wet, and hugged him fiercely once again.

  He was luxuriating in the warmth of her welcome, the plush press of her curves against his own hard edges, when a child's voice said, "Kiss!"

  With a sharp breath, Annabel pulled away. Her gaze darted to her hostess. Wiping hastily at her reddening cheeks, she stammered, "P-Please forgive me—"

  "There's nothing to forgive. In fact," Mrs. Hunt said with a hint of mischief, "I would say that now we are quite even on that account."

  Will's lips tipped up. The lines around Annabel's eyes didn't ease, however. In that moment, he realized how much her hostess' approval meant to her.

  "I don't want you to think that I'm rag-mannered," she said with aching honesty. "Especially around children ..."

  "Goodness, how do you think this scamp learned that word?" Mrs. Hunt said.

  "Kiss!" Garrett repeated gleefully. "Mama ... Papa ... kiss!"

  TWELVE

  As much as she'd enjoyed Percy's company, Annabel was relieved when McLeod politely declined the other's invitation for supper. She had so many questions, all of them better asked in private. She managed to contain herself until he and she boarded the hackney to his residence.