White Bear's Woman by Candace McCarthy

Author:Candace McCarthy [McCarthy, Candace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: eKensington
Published: 2013-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

“Mr. Boucher? Mr. Jules Boucher?”

Jules glanced up at the man who’d addressed him. He was an ugly fellow, with beady brown eyes, a sharp nose, and a bright red jagged scar across his left cheek. His powdered wig was slightly askew. And he was English, which made the Frenchman instantly wary. His gaze narrowed. “Monsieur Boucher,” he corrected.

The man’s eyes flashed. “Monsieur, then.” He pulled up a chair and sat at the Frenchman’s table in the common room without waiting for an invitation.

Jules’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he asked rudely.

The man smiled evenly, and the drawing of his scar distorted his face, pulling up one side more than the other. “Some information.”

The Frenchman frowned. “Information does not come cheaply, monsieur.”

“Mister, ”the English man said mockingly. “Mr. Walpole. Samuel Walpole.” He didn’t offer his hand.

“Oui, Mr. Walpole.” Jules took a gulp of his whiskey, then plunked his glass down hard on the tabletop. “Pete! ” he called. “I’ll have another!” While he waited for another drink, he rubbed the rim of the empty glass slowly with his middle finger. His gaze returned to the Englishman. “If you have nothing to say, Walpole, then I suggest you find another table.” He hated Englishmen, and he sensed that this one was as greedy and arrogant as the rest of them.

“Hannah Gibbons,” the man said, watching him closely.

Jules froze. “What about her?”

“I’m looking for her. I understand that you purchased her indenture.”

The Frenchman became uneasy. “And if I had?”

“I want to see her.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Walpole’s face became even uglier in his anger. “I have a right to see her, Boucher. She’s my stepdaughter.” Samuel smiled at the Frenchman’s stunned expression.

“Your stepdaughter?”

Samuel nodded. “I’ve been searching for her. She ran away after her mother’s passing. She was extremely distraught. She has a family who want to see her, who care for her,” he lied. “They’re willing to pay a great deal to have her back home.”

Boucher scowled. “Although it pains me to admit this—I can’t help you. Hannah is no longer in my employ.”

Walpole eyed the unkempt Frenchman with contempt. The man was huge, dirty, and looked as if he hadn’t washed in over a year. He smelled like it, too. He’s been startled when the innkeeper had pointed Boucher out to him. His mouth twisted. He wondered how Hannah had dealt with him. “But you know where she is—”

“Not exactly, monsieur.”

Anger formed a knot in Samuel’s stomach. Damn it all, but he’d thought he had her! She was all that kept him from returning to England to claim his prize, from living the remainder of his life in comfort. And now to be thwarted once again!

“What the bloody hell do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” he hissed. His head pounded. His scar burned. He wanted to hit something—someone, and if Boucher didn’t give him the right answer—and soon, it was likely to be the Frenchman.

Jules Boucher placed his hand on the handle of the knife strapped to his belt and drew himself straighter in his chair.

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