The Widow Vanishes (6 page)

The innkeeper, a jovial fellow with grey whiskers, greeted them at the reception counter. "McLeod, now there's a sight for sore eyes! Haven't seen you in ages, sir."

"Been busy, Mr. Boggs. Hoping you have a room to spare," McLeod said. "My companion and I ran into some trouble and need a place for the night."

Annabel considered requesting a separate room. Given everything that had passed between her and McLeod, however, she decided not to push her luck. Besides, there was no use shutting the stable door after the horses had bolted.
She didn't intend to stay long either. At the first opportunity, she would make her escape.

For his part, the innkeeper didn't blink an eyelash at McLeod's request. Perhaps the latter showed up here with female companions all the time. Annabel found she didn't like the thought.

"For you, sir, always." Plucking a key from the wall, Boggs led the way through the crowded main room and up a flight of stairs. "Haven't forgotten what you did for me last year, scaring those blackguards off. Protection fees, indeed," the innkeeper said with disgust. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say, and all thanks to you. It'll be the best for you and your friend, McLeod—and on the house, too."

"You can return my favor with discretion," McLeod said. "If anyone asks, you didn't see us tonight."

"Discretion is my middle name," Boggs said.

The innkeeper unlocked the door to the suite, and at the sight of the cheerful fire and the tub set up beside it, Annabel had to suppress a sigh of longing. Then her gaze flitted to the large bed, and her tummy quivered.

Not entirely with fear, either.

Despite the fact that McLeod worked for her enemy, her heart flipped as she watched him talking to Boggs. Disheveled, bruises darkening his jaw and knuckles, he was a fierce warrior fresh from battle—from rescuing her from a gang of villainous knaves. And now he was requesting a change of clothes be brought for her, a hot repast. Surely a man who'd see to her comforts wouldn't harm her … would he?

She felt as wound up as a dashed clock. She couldn't trust her own instincts. They'd led her astray with Randall, and William McLeod was a thousand times more dangerous than her dead louse of a husband. He worked for a deadly cutthroat who was probably going to have her killed for breaking her contract.

Fear reared its head again, and 'twas a timely reminder. She couldn't allow herself to be lulled into complacency by a gallant rescue or a much needed meal. As maids came and went, bringing food and buckets of steaming water to fill the tub, she plotted her getaway. Mayhap when McLeod was asleep … The image of the big Scot sprawled in the bed lured other thoughts into her head. Her pulse quickened.

Was he going to expect her to sleep with him?

She wouldn't, she told herself. She wasn't a whore any longer. She wouldn't be bedded at any man's whim.

Even if said man possessed the devil's own attractions.

McLeod shut the door behind the last maid. Annabel swallowed when his glittering gaze fixed upon her. He advanced toward her, and she backed away. The dip of her spine hit the edge of the table; in two steps, he had her trapped. Loomed over her, his features carved in granite and utterly unreadable.

Refusing to be intimidated, she drew back her shoulders. "We should talk."

"Take off your clothes first," he said.

"I beg your pardon," she said indignantly.

"You smell like you've been rolling around in a rubbish heap. You need a bath."

This, unfortunately, was true.

Lifting her chin, she said, "Fine. If you'll leave and give me privacy, I—" She broke off with a gasp when his fingers hooked the edge of her bodice. He didn't even exert pressure: the tatty material simply parted like the Red Sea at his touch, the torn halves fluttering to the ground.

He lifted a brow at her chemise. "Do you need help with that as well?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. "You've helped enough already! Now will you please leave me to bathe in peace?"

"And have you run on me again? Not a chance, beauty." A faint curve softened the stern line of his lips. "Now take off that rag and get in the tub. Water's getting cold."

"Do
not
tell me what to do," she said through her teeth.

"Then don't be daft. Get in the tub, or I'll put you there."

"You wouldn't dare—"

Before she could finish, McLeod swooped in, capturing her in his arms. She struggled against his hold, but to no avail. Her chemise went the way of her gown, and with a small splash, she was deposited into the tub. Sputtering, she wavered between irritation at his high-handedness—and pleasure at the silky embrace of hot water. Heaven.

"Feels good, eh lass?"

She hunched forward, wrapping her arms around her knees so that her essential parts were hidden from view. She glowered at him.

For some reason, this made the oaf chuckle. "Now there's a killing look if I ever saw one. Relax, Bella." He dragged a chair over to the tub. "Though it's not gentlemanly to mention it, I had the privilege of a preview last night."

"You're right—it's
not
gentlemanly. The minute I—what are you
doing
?" She twisted her neck to look at him.

"Washing your hair."

To her stupefaction, he continued to drizzle sweet-smelling soap onto her hair. He massaged it in, his strong fingers working against her scalp, sparking pleasure at her nerve endings. She bit back a whimper of bliss. With a firm yet gentle touch, he guided her head to rest on the tub's edge as he worked his magic, washing and rinsing her tresses.

"Ease up, lass. Not going to hurt you."

"What do you intend to do?" Her voice trembled as she eyed his upside-down visage.

"It depends."

"On?"

"The truth." His palms cradled the sides of her head, his gaze intent upon her face. "Why'd you run from me, Bella? Take my coin?"

She bit her lip. Looked away as shame flooded her. What difference would it make if he knew the truth? At this point, how much worse could he think of her? In all likelihood, he probably wouldn't even believe her: from his point of view, she was nothing more than a strumpet and a thief.

"I'm not a whore, McLeod. I know that's hard to believe after what we ... after last night." Though her cheeks flamed, she went on resolutely, "I've never done such a thing before, and I'm
never
doing it again. I—I would rather die."

He grew still. "Was it ... bad, then? I swear I didn't know. I thought ..."

At that, she sat up. Turned to look at him properly. His features were set in stark lines, his eyes dark with ... self-recrimination?

For an instant, her survival instinct kicked in, told her to let him believe that he'd hurt her. Mayhap then he'd leave her alone. But her blasted sense of honor wouldn't allow it. As much as she hated to admit the truth—to herself and to him—she found she couldn't lie. Couldn't allow him to take blame when there was none to take.

"It wasn't bad," she mumbled.

"Never in my life have I forced my attentions upon a woman." He wiped his hands on a towel, his eyes not meeting hers. "It pains me greatly that I might have done so with you."

"You didn't force me, alright? That's the problem," she said, flushing.

"I don't follow, lass."

McLeod was looking at her, his brows drawn. Was the lummox going to make her spell it out?

Aiming her gaze at the water, she said in a small voice, "I've never experienced anything like last night. Anything that ... good."

He crooked a finger under her chin, searched her eyes. "Truly?"

She hesitated. Gave a tight nod.

"Not even ... with your husband?"

She jerked away, cursing herself a fool. "How do you know about Randall? Did Todd send you after me to collect the debt? I'm not going back—"

"Be calm, lass. I won't be doing anything to harm you. Wouldn't have taken advantage of you last night had I known," he said gruffly. "Let's finish your bath and then you'll tell me everything. Know that I'll do what I can to help you."

"Why?"

He frowned. "Why ... what?"

"Why would you help me?"
When no one ever has before?

He smoothed a damp curl from her cheek. "Because you're a wee bit and could use some looking after."

His dark gaze warmed her insides like a cup of morning chocolate. If only she could believe such kindness existed in the world ... but experience had taught her otherwise. Randall had seemed caring, too—and look how that had turned out.

No, she had to remain on guard, to not let her impulsive nature lead her astray again. If McLeod truly meant to give her assistance, she couldn't afford to turn it down. But she was no longer a naive fool who gave a man her trust willy-nilly.

"I'm not a wee anything," she said, flustered.

He said nothing, but his smile made her heart flip in her chest. Before she could protest, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. His gentleness besieged her senses, a wave of safety and calm washing over her as he finished her bath.

NINE

Once they were both bathed and fed, Will sat next to Annabel on the couch by the fire. With her feet tucked beneath her, she haltingly told her tale. He listened and inwardly cursed himself for ignoring all the signs. His training in the army allowed him to read most men easily, yet with Bella he hadn't listened to instinct—had rationalized his behavior instead of heeding his gut reaction to protect her.

Bundled in a flannel nightgown borrowed from the innkeeper's wife, Bella's age and innocence were all too apparent. Free of paint, her skin had a dewy glow, and he'd been right about the freckles—like a kiss of golden faerie dust, they sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. Her manner was without guile ... almost painfully honest.

Shadows darkened her amethyst eyes as she presented the facts that had led to her present situation. She didn't attempt to mitigate her actions—merely hung them up the way a laundrywoman might the linens. With weary pragmatism.

Her parents' deaths. The living situation with her uncle and his family. Her elopement with Randall Foster a year and a half ago.

"Within a month, I knew that marrying Randall had been a mistake," she said.

God help him, if that bastard had hurt her—Will told himself to put a rein on it. Losing his temper was not going to help Bella. In fact, it might stop her from talking, and he didn't want her to stop. He wanted to learn as much as he could about her.

In neutral tones, he said, "How did you know?"

"He went through the small dowry I had, drinking and wagering. Wenching. My inheritance was the reason he married me, though I was too stupid to realize it at the time. I was blinded by his flattery, his promises and words of love." Her shoulders hitched in a self-deprecating gesture. "I'd never heard such things before."

His brows came together. Were the men in her village blind? "I find it hard to believe that a lass such as you would go overlooked."

"Not overlooked exactly." Color stained her cheeks. "More like looked at ... in the wrong way. My Uncle Pritchard used to say my appearance was a sin."

"Your uncle is an arse." Will's jaw clenched.

It was the truth. Especially now that he saw her undisguised. Free of gaudy trappings, she was a sensual, fiery angel—one that could set a man afire. Right now, he was burning for her, and it wasn't even for her physical charms, abundant as those were. The desire to protect her blazed through him. God help him, he'd felt this pull toward her from the start, drawn to the turmoil he'd sensed like a moth to a flame ...

A warning shot went off in his head. There was no doubting that Annabel was in need of assistance. Yet hadn't he sworn to stay away from ladies in distress?

Annabel was different from Laura, he told himself. Laura had only seemed fragile and ladylike whilst in reality she'd been hard and manipulative. She'd strung him along with coy glances, the rare kiss, all the while setting the bait for a better catch. She'd kept him dangling for
two years
—and then bedded his brother within a fortnight of making Alaric's acquaintance.

Annabel was the opposite, Will told himself. She put on a fierce exterior, but he now saw through to her underlying vulnerability. Saw that she was a brave and loyal lass, too.

He thought of the way she had charged into the battle in the alleyway. She could have taken the opportunity to run. But she'd stayed and fought—though he wished to God she'd taken cover instead.

Laura would have fallen into a graceful faint.

"Tell me about your debt," he said.

Annabel's fingers trembled as they fiddled with the loose folds of her gown. "Before he died, Randall spent most of his time at Todd's club. Ran up a tab of five hundred pounds. When Todd's men came to our home to collect, Randall promised that he would pay. Instead, he did the flit that night. I didn't even know he planned to leave London—he certainly didn't invite me." Her throat rippling, she said, "The next day, Randall was found strung from a tree. Parts of him had been ... removed."

'Twas the calling card of London's underworld: an eye for an eye. A grisly warning to all and a way to ensure that debtors stepped up to their responsibilities. Will felt no sympathy for Randall Foster. In fact, he wished the bastard was there at that very moment—so he could kill him again.

He covered Annabel's hand with his own, warmed the cold from her fingers.

"Though I wish he hadn't suffered at the end, I'm not sorry he's dead," she said.

"That's good because Foster got what he deserved," Will said flatly. "Todd came to you?"

She nodded. "I tried to pay off the debt. With whatever honest work I could find."

Will flashed to the Johnsons' sweaty garret room, and his hand squeezed hers a little tighter.

"But I was only deluding myself. How could I ever hope to pay off such a sum—and with interest? I had no references, and what work I did manage to find … didn't last," she said bleakly. "In the end, my only option was,"—a ripple passed over her smooth throat—"to sell my body. Last night was my first night."