Heat pushed behind her eyes. "I'm sorry, McLeod. I've brought you nothing but trouble."
"Aye, you've brought some trouble. Brought something else, too—which I'd like to discuss if we're done with the matter of Todd."
What else could she say? Remorse clogged her throat. She'd placed them both in vulnerable positions. If she went to Todd now, she might end up dangling from a tree like Randall. But if anything happened to McLeod ...
Her heart throbbed in her ears. She felt woozy, disoriented as the truth blazed in her head. Though she'd only known William McLeod for a short time, she cared about him. Their fates had been forged together by sheer intensity, the life or death game they played with a dangerous foe. And as much as McLeod seemed bent on protecting her, she wouldn't hesitate to do the same for him.
"You alright, lass? You're pale." The Scot frowned. "Perhaps we'd better curtail conversation until you've had a chance to rest."
"I'm fine. Nothing's amiss."
Other than the fact that you make me long for the impossible ...
Breathlessly, she said, "What do you wish to talk about?"
He eyed her. "You're certain you're up to this?"
"Yes."
"It's about our arrangement."
Hope deflated like a soufflé. She should have expected this.
You never get something for nothing.
In truth, she ought to be grateful that McLeod was a decent, forthright man who would clearly spell out the terms of his proposition.
If he wanted her to be his mistress, what would she say?
"Yes?" Her voice quivered a little.
He raked a hand through his hair, and her palms prickled with the memory of those thick, russet waves sliding between her fingers.
"You'll be staying with me tonight, Annabel," he said gruffly. "A woman alone with a man. Even though you're a widow ... well, it's not quite respectable, is it?"
It wasn't. But either was meeting in a bawdy house.
"It seems propriety has washed its hands of me," she said.
When he didn't respond to her feeble attempt at humor, she felt as tightly strung as a violin.
"I want you to know that I will respect your wishes, whatever they may be. What happened between us in the past has no bearing on the present." The sincerity in his velvety eyes made her tummy flutter. "You staying with me doesn't ... obligate you. In any way. I wanted you to know that."
Tears burned at the back of her throat. Respect—it had been a long while since anyone thought her worthy of it. Overwhelmed by his consideration and gentlemanly honor, she could only nod.
"After tonight, we'll find other lodgings for you. A boarding house for ladies, mayhap. I'll take care of the expense."
"No, please," she managed to say. "You've done too much for me already. If you don't mind having me, I'm grateful for a place to stay. At least until I can find work and get on my own feet again."
"But your reputation—"
"I'm no society lady, McLeod. I've got more pressing concerns than what others may think of me." She bit her lip and gave him the truth. "And I'd feel ... safer. With you."
He studied her intently. "Your well-being is my priority. As far as I'm concerned, you may stay as long as you like."
She smiled tremulously. Before she could say more, the hackney came to a halt. McLeod stepped down first and she followed, her gaze widening at the sight of the townhouse. When he had said he lived close to Covent Garden, she'd envisioned something less grand. His home was a handsome three-storey edifice on a quiet street of tidy residences. Flowers bloomed in the planters, and pristine windows sparkled in the last rays of the sun.
"This is your home?" she said faintly.
"Aye." He led her up the steps, and at the door, he paused, frowning. "Speaking of which, I should warn you about my housekeeper. She's a bristly but decent lady, been with me for years—"
The door flung open. A robust woman with a button nose, rosy cheeks, and frizzy brown hair glared at them. "And just where have you been, sir? No note, no message. After I went to the trouble of making veal pie for last night's supper, too!"
McLeod grunted. "Good day to you as well, Mrs. Ramsbottom."
The woman's gaze honed in on Annabel. "Who've you got there?"
"If you'd let me into my own house, I'll introduce you," he said pointedly.
Apparently this sort of exchange was not unusual between master and servant. Without blinking an eye, Mrs. Ramsbottom stepped aside enough to let them pass. She closed the door and crossed her arms over her ample bosom.
McLeod returned her scowl. "Mrs. Foster, this is Miriam Ramsbottom, my housekeeper. Though she tends to forget who pays her wages."
Ignoring her employer, Mrs. Ramsbottom said, "Foster, eh? Any relation to the Fosters on Knightsborough Lane?"
"Er, no," Annabel said.
"Good. They're a disreputable lot." Mrs. Ramsbottom looked her up and down, and Annabel's cheeks heated beneath the other's sharp-eyed perusal. What would the good lady think of a ragtag widow staying with her master?
"Well, you look like you appreciate a good meal—what do you think about mutton in mint sauce?" Mrs. Ramsbottom demanded.
Annabel blinked. "That ... I'd love some?"
The housekeeper snorted. "Come in, then. I'll get you settled into one of the guest chambers." She glanced around. "Where's your luggage?"
Annabel realized that there was no point in hiding the truth. The housekeeper was bound to discover her circumstances soon enough.
In quiet tones, she said, "I don't have any luggage, ma'am. All I have is what I'm wearing."
She kept her chin up, awaiting judgment.
"Well, never had a use for extravagance myself," Mrs. Ramsbottom said brusquely. "I have a few extra things lying about that you're welcome to. Seeing as you're not one of those fashionable skin-and-bones misses, they should fit you."
"You're too kind." Annabel's voice wobbled. She'd been prepared for rejection; she had no defense against compassion.
"Come along, then. I'll give you a tour of the place on the way to your suite."
The housekeeper marched toward the mahogany stairwell like a colonel expecting his troops to fall behind. Glancing at McLeod, Annabel saw his faint smile as he nodded her on. She almost collided with Mrs. Ramsbottom when the latter stopped abruptly on the steps.
"Almost forgot, Mr. McLeod—you received another letter today. From Scotland. Important by the looks of the fancy seal."
Annabel saw the way McLeod's shoulders stiffened, his handsome features settling into hard lines. "Where is it?"
"I put it with the other letter that you didn't open," the housekeeper said. "On your desk."
Why hadn't McLeod opened the letters? And why did he suddenly look so ... grim?
"Thank you, Mrs. Ramsbottom," he said curtly.
Before Annabel could ask if anything was the matter, Mrs. Ramsbottom led the charge again, ushering her along. "No time for shilly-shallying. After you get situated, it's down to supper. Cook's mutton waits for no one."
THIRTEEN
Dinner was a celebration of good English cooking. After being stuffed to the gills with pea soup, stewed oysters, and roasted mutton, Annabel nearly groaned at the appearance of a trifle topped with peaks of whipped cream. To Mrs. Ramsbottom's beaming approval, she sampled the dessert nonetheless and found it as delicious as all the rest.
In tacit agreement, neither she nor McLeod brought up his bargain with Todd. After the intensity of the past few days, tonight was a well-earned respite. Tomorrow, the worries would return, but for now it was enough to share a good meal and conversation. McLeod proved a wonderful supper companion. He entertained her with stories of growing up in Scotland, his descriptions so vivid that she could imagine him as a boy roaming those wild woods and verdant valleys. She listened with avid interest as he told her about his family.
"Da was the business manager for a mill owner," he said. "He married my ma when he was a widower in his later years. We weren't rich and didn't have much to spare, but we got by."
The fact that Will and she shared a similar middling class background came as a welcome discovery. Though her present circumstances had brought her low and made her unworthy of him, she was grateful that they were connected by this common thread.
"Do you see your family often?" she asked, sipping her coffee.
He shook his head. "Da passed when I was sixteen. Ma a year before that."
So he, too, was parentless.
"Do you have any siblings?" she said gently.
"A half-brother, older by three years."
"You're fortunate," she said wistfully. "I always longed for a sibling. A companion for childhood romps, someone to share confidences with as adults."
"Perhaps as young lads my brother Alaric and I were companions." A distant look came into his eyes. "It's hard to recall after all this time. We haven't been close since I was six years old."
Her brow furrowed. "Why not?"
After a moment's hesitation, he answered, "From that time on, Alaric and I were raised apart. My father had a wealthy distant cousin in Lanarkshire—we called him Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry had a son about Alaric's age who died suddenly of a fever. Apparently our uncle and his wife could have no more children, and they offered to take me or Alaric in, to provide for our schooling and upkeep. Alaric begged to be allowed to go. He'd always wanted to live on a grand estate, to have the finest trappings, servants at his beck and call." McLeod's expression hardened. "During his rare visits home, Alaric showed me no brotherly love."
McLeod's flat tone made Annabel wonder exactly what had transpired between the two siblings. And why a nine-year-old boy would volunteer to leave a loving household—even for a wealthier one.
"After our parents died, I thought I would go live with Alaric," McLeod went on. "Uncle Henry and his wife seemed willing enough to have me. But my brother made it clear to me that I was not welcome."
"Why?" she said in surprise.
"I think he resented my mother for marrying Da and me for being born. Even when we were young boys living together, Alaric always had to be the leader—the stronger, bigger, smarter one." McLeod's heavy shoulders moved up and down; the casual gesture didn't hide the bitter grimness of his expression. "During his adolescent years, Alaric had several illnesses, and Uncle Henry's wife doted upon him. Spoiled him rotten. Perhaps he didn't want any competition for her attention."
"Have you asked your brother about his reasons?" Annabel ventured.
McLeod shook his head. "When Alaric and I met again as adults, we had a final falling out. Haven't spoken to him since I quit the regiment and settled in London. Don't plan on speaking to him in the future."
His shuttered expression warned her not to pry further. Though her curiosity was piqued, she decided to drop the subject for now.
"What prompted you to join the army?" she said instead.
The lines didn't ease around his eyes. "'Tis the tradition of second sons, no? I used my inheritance to purchase a commission. Spent five years with the 95th Rifles."
She could well imagine him in the dashing green uniform. Committing acts of heroism on the battlefield. "Did you like being a soldier?"
"Didn't like the killing," he said bluntly. "The rest was well enough."
"Why did you leave?"
"My injury." His gaze turned as dark as the brew in her cup. "Now, my curious one, it's time for the tables to be turned. Tell me about you."
"You already know about me," she protested.
"Not everything. Tell me about the good times, Annabel," he said intently. "Tell me what has given you the courage and strength to fight adversity and survive as you have."
Mesmerized by the warmth of his gaze and words, she did. She told him about the cozy cottage of her childhood. The kitchen where she'd helped her mama prepare meals, the consultation room where her papa had treated his village patients. The little garden out back where she'd helped to plant and harvest vegetables. As she spoke, she relived those bright, joy-filled days. McLeod was attentive, interested, and by the time supper was over, she felt closer to him than she had to any man.
It took her a moment to recognize her feelings as ... happiness.
After supper, McLeod excused himself to take care of business and bid her good night. Mrs. Ramsbottom produced the promised clothing and helped Annabel with a bath. Clean and safe, Annabel lay in the soft bed ... yet sleep would not come.
Her mind raced with all that she'd learned about McLeod—and the more that she wanted to know. The desire to be near him pulsed recklessly in her blood. As his deep voice replayed in her head, she trembled with the memory of their lovemaking. Her nipples budded beneath soft linen, her pussy dampening with need.
She could not deny the truth. She wanted McLeod—to be in his bed, in his arms, to feel the sheltering heat of his embrace. He'd said that the choice was up to her, hadn't he?
She knew what she wanted. Why not act on it? Why lie alone in this bed while the man she desired was but a few yards away? Why waste the present moment when the future was so uncertain—who knew what would unfold with Todd and his looming demands?
If she'd learned anything, it was that happiness in life was precious and fleeting and not a second should be wasted.
Her bare feet moved soundlessly against the floorboards as she made her way from her chamber to McLeod's down the hallway. Heart thrumming, she paused at his door ... dare she be this brazen? To trust in her feelings and in the moment?
Her shaking hand circled the doorknob; it turned smoothly in her palm. A sign?
Drawing a breath for courage, she stepped inside.
McLeod's head swung sharply at her entry. He sat reclined against the headboard of his bed, his hair still damp from his bath. Shadows played over the bare, hair-dusted planes of his chest, and a sheet draped over his lower half. He set aside the book in his hands.
"Annabel, is something wrong?" he said, his gaze alert.
She closed the door behind her. "No," she whispered.