They jumped up at Mrs. Johnson's arrival.
"Good evening, ma'am," they chorused in unison.
"This gent is lookin' for Annabel Foster," the mort said without preamble. "Do any of you know 'er whereabouts?"
Fear skittered across the pale, drawn faces. More than one pair of eyes flitted in Mr. Johnson's direction.
"No, ma'am." The one who spoke up looked to be the eldest, perhaps twenty. Large grey eyes dominated her thin face. "We 'aven't 'eard from Annabel since she left an' you said we're to 'ave nothin' to do with 'er sort."
"You 'eard 'er," Mrs. Johnson said to Will with a shrug. "They don't know nothin'."
"I'd like a moment alone with your seamstresses," Will said. "To ask them a few questions."
The woman frowned. "They ain't got time for tongue waggin'—"
"This, I believe, will more than compensate for their time."
Mrs. Johnson snatched the purse that Will held out. "Ten minutes. Come, Ezra," she snapped.
She led the way out, her husband waddling reluctantly in her wake. Will didn't miss the warning looks the man cast behind him.
Closing the door firmly, Will said to the girl who'd spoken, "What is your name, miss?"
"Jane Miller, sir."
"Miss Miller, do you know why Miss Foster left this establishment?"
The girl's eyes narrowed in her wan face. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm trying to find her. She's in trouble," Will said bluntly, "and trust me, 'tis to her benefit that I find her before others do."
"You're a friend of Annabel's, then?"
Will's neck heated. "In a manner of speaking."
Miss Miller searched his face, seemed satisfied with what she saw there. "'Tis Mrs. Foster, not Miss. Annabel's a widow."
Will blinked. Bella—a widow? She looked so young. And Todd hadn't mentioned anything about a dead husband.
"Don't know much else about 'er," Miss Miller went on. "She wasn't 'ere long. But she was a decent sort. When my sister Libby cut 'er finger with the shears, Annabel fixed 'er up. Knew 'ow to do it right, too, on account o' 'er papa bein' a doctor."
One the smallest girls held up her little index finger, which bore a faint mark. "It was bleedin' somefin' terrible," she said solemnly, "but Annabel tol' me not to be scared. Said stitchin' a cut weren't no different than sewin' anyfin' else."
Will tried to assimilate this new information with what he knew about Annabel. Growing confusion chipped away at his anger. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he might have leapt to conclusions about her being a lying, stealing strumpet a bit too quickly.
"Why did she leave?" he said.
Worried looks chased over the pinched faces.
"It's Johnson, isn't it?" Will said.
He heard several girls inhale sharply. Miss Miller's eyes widened in fright. "Oh no, sir. I didn't say nothin'—"
"You didn't have to," Will said grimly. "Nor will you have anything to fear from him in the future, do you understand? I'll see to it."
"Please, sir, I can't lose the work—"
"You won't. You have my word." Will handed her his card. "If you encounter any difficulties, you contact me here."
Her gaze uncertain, the girl tucked the card into her apron pocket.
Will addressed the room at large. "Do any of you know where Miss Foster might have gone?"
The girls shuffled their feet, glanced at one another.
"On 'er night off, she'd go to evenin' prayer," one piped up. "Said she liked the peaceful feelin' o' Christ Church. The singing an' candles all lit up."
The thrill of discovery trickled through Will. What better sanctuary than a church? Christ Cathedral was a few blocks away, and evening services would be ending soon.
"Thank you. I'll keep you no longer." He placed a small bag of coins in Miss Miller's hands, lowered his voice. "'Tis for the lot of you. Can you keep it safe from your mistress?"
"Yes, sir," the girl breathed. "Thank you, sir."
Will bowed. He yanked the door open, and the Johnsons almost tumbled into the room.
"See me out, Johnson," he said curtly.
"Don't see why I should—" the man sputtered.
"Fine. Then we'll talk about your private affairs here," Will said.
"Affairs? What's 'e talkin' about?" Mrs. Johnson said, her hands on her hips.
"Nothin'," Johnson said quickly. "You stay 'ere, Martha, an' get the girls back to work. I'll take care o' this."
Once outside the shop, Johnson closed the front door behind him and said, "Now see 'ere. Don't know what those lyin' hussies said but—"
Will grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the door. The bastard gasped, his face reddening as Will kept him pinned, his feet dangling off the ground.
"Like being helpless?" Will grated out. "Like being subject to another's whims?"
Johnson gurgled, his hands clutching futilely at Will's implacable grip. "P-please—"
"You keep your hands off those girls, do you understand?"
Johnson nodded wildly, his eyes bulging in their sockets.
"You go near them, I'll find out. I'll come back and finish what I started." Deliberately, Will tightened his hold on the man's windpipe, letting the other wheeze and flail in fear before letting go.
Johnson sagged against the door, gasping for air. "Pr—promise …won't 'appen again—" The bounder broke off with a groan when Will plowed a fist into his gut.
"That was for Annabel Foster," Will said with quiet menace. "You'd best pray that she turns up safe. If anything happens to her, rest assured you will see me again—and I won't go easy on you the next time."
Johnson whimpered, and the acrid smell of piss filled the air.
Disgusted, Will left the bugger crumpled on the ground. He plunged into the dark night, making haste toward the bright stained glass beacon in the distance. To the sacred haven where Annabel might be found.
SEVEN
The last notes of Evensong trembled against the richly decorated ceiling of the nave before fading into nothingness. Reluctantly, Annabel rose to join the other departing worshippers. She'd always found comfort in the beauty of Christ Church. Given the large population of French Protestants who'd settled in the Spitalfields area, the church had been built as show of Anglican authority, and thus no expense had been spared.
She paused on the front steps to admire the magnificent tower. The tallest point for miles, it emanated a powerful, almost gothic presence—as if God watched over all his creatures from that vantage point and protected them from harm. Or perhaps, she thought with wry insight, 'twas her own longing for security and protection that made the tower seem like a sheltering force.
The truth was that no one was looking out for her. She was utterly, completely alone. As she trudged along the dark street, she kept her eyes about her. There were still people out in the humid summer night, but soon they would go inside their own homes or other establishments for supper. She didn't have the former nor coin for the latter. Her plan was to keep moving until she found a safe spot to spend the night. If she was lucky, she might stumble upon an overlooked scrap of food from the earlier market.
As she scoured the gutters for any such luck, the hairs suddenly tingled on her nape. She spun around—saw the large figure about a dozen yards behind her. There was no mistaking the massive shoulders, the powerful build, the determined stride.
McLeod.
Damn him, why couldn't he leave her be?
For the second time that day, she broke into a run. She darted headlong into the first alleyway to her right, nearly tripping over a homeless wretch sleeping there in the darkness. His curses rang in her ears as she scrambled past, trying to avoid the other huddled forms and piles of refuse littering the dark passage. Panting, she made it to the end and turned left into the winding maze.
She couldn't tell if McLeod was behind her and didn't stop to find out. She continued her wild dash, the flames from smoking grates her guiding constell
ation in the darkness. Just as she thought she might have lost him, she picked up the pounding thud of boots. At the same time, she could feel her energy sapping.
She couldn't outrun him. Which meant ... she'd have to hide.
Up ahead, the path forked, and she veered to the right. This stretch was narrow and empty save for rubbish heaps. Frantically, she scanned for a place to conceal herself—then she saw it. Darkness a little deeper than the rest: a tiny flight of steps leading down to a basement storage room. The space between the steps and the door was large enough for her to fit. She scrambled into the hole. Reaching up, she dragged refuse over her, filling the doorway.
Buried in rank filth, she waited.
Within a minute, she heard the ominous approach of footsteps. Through a small crack in the garbage, she watched as the large boots came closer and closer. They stopped, inches from where she hid. Her heart boomed in her ears; her breath caught and held.
Seconds or hours later—she'd lost all sense of time—the boots moved on.
She counted to fifty and poked her head out. When she saw no movement, she crawled out of the slimy mound, shuddering as she did so. There was no time for delicate sensibilities. She'd probably only bought herself a few minutes of time before McLeod returned to look for her.
She headed in the opposite direction of where he'd gone. With a few furtive glances backward, she sped through the dark labyrinth. No sign of McLeod. Perhaps she'd lost him ... Her heart slammed against her ribs when a figure materialized at the end of the alley, blocking her path. She halted and knew instantly from the man's wiry build that he was not McLeod.
The stranger sneered, "What 'ave we 'ere?"
She spun to flee—panic charged through her. Two additional figures had emerged from the shadows, blocking her escape. She was trapped in the narrow alley, surrounded by a trio of advancing brutes.
"What do you want?" Though terror seized her, she tried to sound bold.
"Lost your way, dove?" The menacing tone iced her insides. "Come wif us an' we'll show you a good time."
She angled her chin up, went for a bluff. "I was just with my husband, and we got separated at the fork. He'll be back for me at any minute."
"Then we'd better be quick wif our business, eh?"
One of the ruffians made a grab for her. She dodged him, only to be caught from behind by one of his partners. She screamed and kicked out. The sound was muffled by a suffocating grip.
"One more peep out o' you an' I'll break your pretty l'il neck," the villain snarled.
She struggled nonetheless, managed to make satisfying impact with her knee.
One of her attackers swore. "Christ's blood, 'old 'er still! Can't sample 'er wares wif 'er wrigglin' like a bleedin' lamprey."
A beefy arm hooked around her throat, cutting off her air. Gasping, she dug and clawed at the choking hold to no avail. She heard a ripping sound, the humid rush of the night flowing over her bare skin.
"Look at 'er tits—"
Greedy hands fondled her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't fight. Terror bled into numbness, her vision fading into blurry lines ...
"Unhand her!"
The hold on her loosened, and she fell to her knees, wheezing. When her head cleared, she saw McLeod, fists flying, battling her three attackers with unhinged ferocity. A brute attacked him with a vicious-looking cudgel. Ducking the blow, McLeod executed a powerful uppercut that sent the other flying backward through the air, the cudgel skittering into the darkness.
One of the remaining two bastards charged at McLeod, driving him into the brick wall. The other reached into his coat, and Annabel glimpsed the menacing glint.
"Knife! Watch out!" she cried as the bounder charged at McLeod.
McLeod shoved aside the cutthroat he'd been grappling with, pivoting away from the oncoming blade at the last second. He turned on his opponent.
Beckoning with one large hand, he said, "Care to try that again, you bastard?"
The idiot took the bait, went in again. McLeod caught the other's arm, executed a lightning-quick movement that resulted in a sickening crack. The brute screamed until McLeod's fist sent him into silence.
By this time, the other two had recovered, and together they jumped on McLeod. One restrained the Scot by the arms, the other delivering blows to his gut. He struggled, trying to shake the two off, but they kept at him, persistent hyenas trying to take down a fierce, noble king of the jungle.
Rage rushed through Annabel, freeing her from paralysis. She scrambled over to help, tripping over ... the cudgel. Gripping the heavy hammer-like weapon, she rushed toward the bastard beating McLeod. She saw the look of shock on his face the instant before she swung. The iron weight smashed against the brute's head, and he collapsed with a cry of pain. He groaned ... and went still.
McLeod used the moment to his advantage, freeing himself from the remaining villain's hold. He grabbed the other's shoulders, brought his knee up into the man's midsection. He finished off the job with a blow that snapped his adversary's head back and tossed the limp, moaning figure into the dirt.
Standing over the bastards he'd vanquished, the Scot locked gazes with her. Despite the energy coursing through her veins, the rage in his eyes made her pulse tick up another notch. He captured her by the arm.
"Are you hurt?" he said tersely.
She shook her head. Pointed to the man she'd clobbered. "But I think I m-may have killed ..."
McLeod bent and placed his hand on the fallen man's throat. "Bastard's alive," he said. "But he'll feel his head when he comes to."
Relief trembled through her, buckling her knees.
McLeod caught her. "Let's get out of here before more trouble finds us."
For an instant, she questioned his commanding tone, his arm circling her waist. Why had he come to her rescue—and why had she stayed to help him? Was he a threat to her? Did he intend to bring her back to Todd?
At the same time, he felt so solid and strong, an anchor in the storm. The dark was closing in on her, and she didn't know where to go. She swallowed, gave into impulse. Praying that she was doing the right thing, she let him lead her out of the alleyway and into the night.
EIGHT
McLeod took her to a nearby inn situated on a snug lane off Bishopsgate. Despite The Black Swan's worn Tudor-style facade, inside the place was clean and warm, redolent with the smells of roasting meat and savory herbs. Annabel was relieved that the chattering of guests and shuttling of luggage muffled the rumbles of her empty belly.
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.
The Widow Vanishes Page 4