chapter Ten
“Hold on tight,” the Hellequin grunted as he guided the great black horse toward the far shore.
“Do you care for my welfare, then?” Faith leaned forward and asked in the Hellequin’s ear.
His eyes slid sideways as he gave her a sardonic glance. “’Twould not do for you to fall in the River of Sorrows.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “The waters would think you a suicide and then you, too, would spend the rest of eternity drowning.”
The great black horse lurched as it climbed out of the inky waters, and as it did so, Faith pushed Despair into the river. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Megs plucked nervously at the ties to her wrapper. She stood alone in her room—well, alone save for Her Grace and her three puppies, sleeping under her bed. She and Godric had returned home in near silence from Harte’s Folly. If she didn’t know better, she might think her husband as filled with trepidation over their belated wedding night as she.
But that was silly, wasn’t it? He was a man. Even if he’d initially turned her down because of the memory of his late wife, he still must, by his very nature as a male, take the marriage act more cavalierly than a woman. Why else would he suddenly change his mind over the matter?
Megs bit her lip, fearing that she might be lying to herself. She hadn’t seen Godric act cavalierly about anything since her arrival in London. He must have a reason—a deliberate reason—to acquiesce to her. Damnation! She should’ve questioned him more in the garden this afternoon instead of being so overwhelmed with excitement and joy that she’d all but lost the power of thought. She had the feeling that whatever his reasons, it was important that she understand them—understand him. After tonight he would be her husband in fact as well as in name. She owed him the courtesy of at least caring about his motives. She was determined not to feel guilt, though. He was her husband and this was the legal—and natural—consequence of marriage.
Even if he’d been coerced into the marriage in the first place.
She heaved a sigh and glanced again at the pink china clock on her dressing table. It was well past midnight—and nearly an hour since they’d returned home. Had he forgotten?
Had he fallen asleep?
Megs tiptoed toward the door that connected her room to Godric’s. If he’d fallen asleep, she’d just have to wake him up again, damn it.
The door opened abruptly and Megs stopped in her tracks, blinking.
For a moment Godric looked equally startled at finding her just inside the door. He wore a banyan, beneath which she could see his nightshirt and those ridiculous embroidered slippers.
Megs stifled a horrible, overwhelming urge to giggle.
Godric shut the door behind him. “I thought …” He stopped and his brow wrinkled before he began again. “That is, I’d like to talk to you prior to …” He cleared his throat, a nearly subaudible sound like the distant rumble of thunder. “Come.”
He held out his hand, his long fingers gracefully curved. Megs gulped. He hadn’t changed his mind, had he?
“Megs.” His eyes were clear and calm and his entire attention was focused on her.
She remembered the feel of his mouth, hot and demanding, on her nipple. Her face flamed and she placed her hand in his.
He tugged her gently, pulling her down to the chairs by the door.
She sat, her hands primly tucked together in her lap, and looked at him.
“If I do this …”
She frowned, fingers flexing on her skirts.
“When we do this,” he corrected himself, “I want a promise from you.”
“Anything,” she said, quite recklessly.
His face was grave and serious, but she found herself so distracted by the long sweep of his dark eyelashes that for a moment she didn’t hear his words. “Once you know you’re with child, I’d like you to leave London. Return to Laurelwood Manor and live there.”
Her mouth dropped open, and it was stupid really—she was using him as a … a stud, but she was unaccountably wounded. “You want me gone?”
“I want you safe.”
“Why am I safer at Laurelwood?” Her eyes narrowed as soon as she said the words, for she understood all at once. “You don’t want me finding Roger’s murderer.”
A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw. “No.”
She straightened, glaring. “You can’t make me stop.”
His lips thinned. “Agreed. But I can certainly withhold myself from your bed if you refuse my terms.”
A baby or justice for Roger … she didn’t want to make that choice. She wanted—needed—both.
Megs stood abruptly, glancing wildly about the bedroom, trying to think how she could make him see reason. Godric was a man of logic, but she knew he felt deeply as well. His love for his first wife was testament to that. She looked back at him. “If it had been your Clara, would you give up until you’d found her murderer?”
His mouth flattened. “Of course not, but I am a man—”
“And I am a woman.” She spread her arms wide, her fingers grasping to make her emotions concrete so he would understand. “Don’t paint my love any less than yours because of my sex. I loved Roger with all of my heart. When he died, I thought I would die with him. I have the right to find his murderer. To make sure he is avenged. I’ll not stop until that mission is accomplished. Please do not try and dissuade me, for on this subject I will remain adamant.”
He looked at her, silent for so long that she feared he would simply leave her. At last he inhaled. “Very well. While you remain in London—while we try to make a baby between us—you will continue your search for Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “But?”
“But the minute you know you carry a child—my child—you will leave, whether or not you have found the murderer.”
She bit her lip, thinking. It wasn’t everything she wanted, but she was well aware that he could’ve simply refused her outright. It was a compromise.
She’d just have to work harder at finding Roger’s murderer.
Megs lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
A corner of his mouth twitched upward as he took her hand in his and shook it solemnly. “Will you at least permit me to help you in your search? To go into St. Giles in your stead?”
She inhaled, suddenly feeling shaky. “Of course.”
He inclined his head gravely, still holding her hand in a firm grip. “Very well, then. I shall help you to find Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer whilst you remain in London. I shall bed you every night. And you shall leave this house and London for the safety of my country estate when I get you with child. Fair?”
“Fair.”
“But, Megs …”
“Hmm?” She’d become somewhat distracted, ever since he’d used the words bed and every night.
“I retain the right to revisit the discussion about your lover’s murderer,” he said softly. Firmly. “We may yet find another way more amenable to us both.”
She should argue, for he wasn’t exactly playing properly—they’d already shook on the terms. But his hand was warm and strong, his long, elegant fingers wrapped around her own, and the bed was right there.
She’d been waiting for this since she’d come to London.
So she nodded jerkily. “Very well, if you insist.”
“I do,” he whispered, and stood as he pulled her up in front of him.
She was too close suddenly, staring at the pulse that beat at the side of his throat. She swallowed, opening her mouth—
And he bent his head and kissed her. It wasn’t like the kiss in St. Giles. That had been wild and angry and passionate. This was a soft kiss, nearly chaste, as if he questioned with his lips: Is this what you want? Am I who you want? For a moment her thoughts stuttered. He wasn’t who she wanted. She wanted Roger—he was the love of her life. The one to whom she’d given her virginity in happy bliss. The one she’d nearly died mourning for.
But Godric’s lips were slow. Persuasive. Moving over hers almost curiously, as if she were a new, unknown creature. Something foreign and precious. His hands rose, drifting over her arms, skimming her shoulders, slipping up her neck to cradle her face as he angled his head, licking along her bottom lip. She gasped, a soft parting of her mouth, and he slid in, not intrusively, but almost playfully, touching her teeth, meeting her tongue in sweet greeting. It was suddenly too much.
She pulled back, staring wide-eyed at him, her chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve.
“What is it?” His voice was low, raspy.
She swallowed. “Nothing. It’s just …” She bit her lip. “Do we have to kiss?”
His eyebrows winged up his forehead. “Not if you don’t like it.”
“It’s not …” She shook her head, unable to find the words. She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t want to think about him while they did this. That she just wanted him to be a male body, not Godric the man.
His face had closed now, though, looking cold and nearly remote. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“No,” she said shakily. “I mean …”
She inhaled, desperately trying to find equilibrium. She’d destroyed something just now, she could feel it, but if she let him walk through that door again, they might never do this.
She opened her eyes, looking at him imploringly. “Please. I want this now.”
He watched her a moment more, his eyes unreadable, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
He indicated the bed and she drew off her wrapper self-consciously before climbing in. She shivered as her bare legs slid along cold sheets.
Godric took off his banyan and slippers, standing in his nightshirt as he looked at her consideringly. “Would you like me to snuff the candles?”
She nodded gratefully. “Yes, please.”
He didn’t say anything as he snuffed the candelabra on the dresser and the one by the bed. The fire had already been banked for the night and the dull glow of the embers didn’t give much light. Megs listened as Godric lifted the covers of her bed, felt the dip as his weight settled beside her.
She started to tense, and then she felt his touch, gentle but sure. The time to change her mind was past.
Megs tried to think of Roger, to summon his dear face to the front of her brain, but Godric was running his hand down her side, distracting her, making Roger vanish like a reflection in a pond disturbed. Godric leaned up on one elbow, his bulk a dark shape above her. It occurred to her that if it were any other man, she might fear him now.
But this was Godric.
She felt his breath on her face as he leaned closer, his hand on her hip. He paused to caress her through the fine lawn of her chemise; then he trailed his fingers down her legs, slowly, carefully. This lovemaking was sweet and gentle—and it shouldn’t have aroused her.
Her breath was coming too fast. Perhaps she was a wanton, she thought rather wildly. Perhaps having tasted of fleshly delights, she’d become addicted without even knowing it, so that now even a near-impersonal touch had lit a forgotten fuse within her.
He didn’t seem particularly affected. His breaths were even and calm. He’d reached the hem of her chemise now and pulled it upward, baring her knees, her thighs, her feminine triangle. He laid the skirt of her chemise on her stomach, quite circumspectly, and then his hand moved downward, back to her knee, naked now. He rested his hand there, warm and large, and she bit her lip to keep from making any noise.
His breath wasn’t calm anymore—thank goodness for that. He traced lacy patterns on the inside of her knee with just his fingertips. Slowly, so slowly, working his way toward the juncture of her thighs. She parted her legs, offering him more room, inviting those fingers closer to her center, but he kept away, trailing along the crease that separated her leg from her belly.
He bent toward her then, and she had the idea that he meant to kiss her before he remembered and caught himself. Now she wanted to pull him close. To seal her lips to his and tell him that she’d been mistaken earlier. That she did want him to kiss her.
But that would let in thoughts, emotions, that she didn’t want to consider right now. This act was so she could have a baby. That and only that.
His fingers were stroking over her pubic hair, brushing lightly, drawing closer to the folds below. She tilted her head away, staring at the fireplace, trying to keep her equilibrium. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth, the beating heart attached to that seeking hand, but she’d already decided to make this impersonal. It wouldn’t do to change her mind now when she wasn’t thinking clearly.
And then he touched her there and all thought fled her mind. His fingers slid into her intimate recesses, where only she and Roger had ever been, and she should’ve felt invaded, but God help her she didn’t.
She didn’t.
The sob welled within her, unstoppable, unstiflable. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, afraid to make a sound and break apart this intimacy.
He brushed against that small bit of flesh and she jerked as if he’d stabbed her. She wanted … more. She wanted to grind herself against him, wanted to moan, loud and free, wanted to take his hand and make him touch her more firmly. But she did none of those things, for she was a lady who had asked of him an impossible price and if he was gentleman enough to accede to her wishes, the least she could do was bear it with composure.
Even if it might kill her.
He continued with those light, relentless brushes, and she felt herself begin to swell. To become engorged with a kind of liquid pleasure, heating, pulsing in her loins. She’d felt this before, knew what it led to.
She grabbed his wrist and the sound that emerged from her throat was perilously near a whimper.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. If you just let me—”
“No,” she gasped. “Please, no.”
“Megs,” he sighed, his voice troubled.
She couldn’t answer, could only tug on his wrist, mutely indicating what she needed.
He took pity on her, rolling atop her.
She let go of him then, spreading her legs to let his hips slide between them, a firm weight. He bunched up his nightshirt and then she felt the heat of his bare legs, the soft scrape of his body hair. So intimate. So close. She felt thin, cold metal fall between her breasts, some type of pendant he must wear on that chain about his neck. She wondered, absently, what it was—and then all thought fled her mind.
The head of his penis probed her entrance.
She grit her teeth, tensing uncontrollably.
He made a soothing sound and slid through her folds, wetting himself. Teasing her.
She wanted to tell him to just put it in her, damn it. Do the thing and get it over with so she might regain her balance. But he took his time, gliding against her, circling. She could hear the small, wet sounds, feel the spark every time he pressed her there. By the time he finally put the blunt tip in and began to push, she was trembling, trying to keep herself from falling off that ledge. He shoved into her agonizingly slowly. A subtle insertion and retreat, each time filling her a little more with his length. He was as solicitous as if she were a virgin.
And she was going to go insane if he kept it up.
This wasn’t what she wanted, what she needed. She hadn’t asked for careful, warm lovemaking.
She’d asked for his seed.
Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he made one last thrust and she felt the stretch of her inner thighs as his hips met hers. He rested there a moment and his chest pushed against her breasts, unbound under her chemise, as he inhaled. He rocked, sliding against her without saying a word, his breath rough above her in the dark. She wondered what his face looked like, if this act transformed it, if he watched her even though he couldn’t see her.
If he hated her for making him do this.
She couldn’t touch him—she’d forbidden herself that luxury—so she fisted her hands by her head, torturing her pillow with her nails.
And still his hard penis invaded her, surging and retreating, demanding something without words. Demanding what she refused to let herself give.
When his breath caught, when his pace quickened, so that her hips sank beneath his into the soft mattress, she swallowed, straining her eyes to see in the dark. When he suddenly stilled, buried deep in her throbbing flesh, locked with her in animal intensity, she wanted … so much.
But all she received was what she’d asked for.
His seed.
GODRIC CAREFULLY DISENTANGLED himself from Megs, rolling aside as his softening cock slipped from her warm depths. He wanted to stay, to perhaps hold her, and if she let him, kiss her.
But she’d made it plain that she did this without affection and he was not a raw lad.
So he stood and pulled the covers back over her form and when she made a small, questioning noise, he only said, “Good night.”
Turning, he scooped up his banyan and slippers by feel and exited her room.
He’d left a candle burning in his own bedroom and he was glad of the light now. It brought him out of the too-intimate darkness, made him remember who he was.
Who she was.
But even with the candlelight, he found himself at the dresser. His fingers didn’t shake when he fitted the key in the lock and he was inordinately proud of that fact.
He opened the enameled box. The locks of hair lay there, the same as always, and he reached to touch them but found that he couldn’t. His fingers were still damp from Megs’s skin.
“Forgive me,” he whispered to Clara.
At that moment he couldn’t even remember her face, the sound of her laughter, or the sight of her warm eyes. He was speaking to empty air.
Godric gripped the edges of the drawer, the corners pressing painfully into his palms, but still he couldn’t find Clara.
Somehow, he’d lost her.
He was alone.
He inhaled shakily and fished through the loose letters in the drawer with fingers that now trembled until he found the one he wanted.
2 November 1739
Dear Godric,
Thank you for the monies you made available to me. I’ve had the roof repaired and already the east wing has nearly stopped dripping! There is just one rather persistent leak in the tiny room just off the library. I’m not sure exactly what the room was used for. Battlefield informs me that a former lady of the house was locked in there after her husband became enamored of his (male!) steward, but you know how Battlefield likes his little jokes.
We ate the last raspberry out of the garden last week before cutting back the brambles. Everything aboveground has been killed by the frost, except for the kale, and I’ve never really liked kale. Have you? I confess I feel a strange kind of melancholy at this time of year. All the green things have gone to ground, pretending death, and I have nothing left but the frosted trees and the few remaining leaves, dead yet hanging on nonetheless.
But how dreary! I will not fault you if you grumble under your breath and fling aside my maudlin ramblings. I am not an entertaining correspondent, I fear.
Yesterday I went to tea at the vicarage, playing lady of the manor while being plied with very rich cakes and tea. You will not credit it, but we were served a kind of tart made from orange persimmons, quite pretty, but a bit bitter (I think the persimmons were under ripe) and, I am told, a specialty of the vicar’s wife. (So I could do naught but swallow and smile bravely!) The vicar’s youngest son, a babe of only forty days, was presented for my inspection and though he was a brave boy, my eyes watered for some odd reason and I was forced to laugh and pretend I had got a bit of dust in my eye.
I don’t know why I tell you that.
And again! I’ve dribbled into quite boring territory. I shall endeavor to mend my ways and be only cheerful in my next missive, I promise. I remain—
Affectionately Yours,
Megs
PS: Did you try the ginger, barley, and aniseed tisane recipe I sent you? I know it sounds quite revolting, but it will help your sore throat, truly!
Her postscript blurred before his eyes and he blinked hard, inhaling. This was who he’d done it for: Megs, who thought old crotchety butlers had any sense of humor, who ate bitter persimmon tarts to please the local vicar’s wife, and who cried at the sight of a baby and couldn’t admit even to herself why.
She deserved a baby of her own. She’d make a magnificent mother: kind, gentle, understanding.
He placed the letter back in the drawer, closed, and locked it.
He’d promised to give her that baby, and he would.
No matter the cost to himself.
MEGS WOKE TO the sound of Daniels rustling in her armoire. She squinted at the window, realizing it was rather late in the morning, and as she stretched, she made her second realization. Her thighs were sticky.
Godric had made love to her last night.
She knew her face was heating. She could feel the ache of the muscles between her legs, a twinge she hadn’t felt in years, and she wished that she could’ve woken alone so that she might assimilate the changes to her life.
To her.
Fortunately, Daniels’s mind was on other matters. “We have visitors, my lady.”
Megs blinked. It couldn’t be that late. Besides, they hadn’t had any callers since coming to London. She wasn’t even sure the sitting room had been cleaned yet. “We do?”
“Yes, my lady.” Daniels frowned at a yellow brocade gown and placed it back in the armoire. “Three ladies.”
“What?” Megs sat up hurriedly. “Who are they?”
“Relations of Mr. St. John, I believe.”
“Good Lord.” Megs scrambled from the bed, feeling a bit irritated. Why hadn’t Godric told her that he’d expected family to visit? But then, knowing the state of Saint House when they’d arrived, she had the sudden idea that maybe he hadn’t known.
Good Lord, indeed.
Megs made a hasty wash while Daniels’s back was discreetly turned, using the warm water already brought up. Then she stood obediently as Daniels and one of the little maids from the home dressed her in a pink and black figured gown. It was several years old and Megs made a mental note—again—that she really needed to call upon a modiste while in London.
Daniels tutted despairingly as she dressed Megs’s hair. Usually her lady’s maid needed a good forty-five minutes to tame the springy locks. Today she was making do with ten.
“That’s enough,” Megs said, keeping her voice calm even though she wanted to run down the stairs before these relatives of Godric left in high dungeon at the state of the house. Good lady’s maids were hard to find—particularly ones who would work in the country. “Thank you, Daniels.”
Daniels sniffed and stood back, and Megs walked quickly out of her room.
The first floor was very quiet and Megs bit her lip as she descended. Had they left?
But as she made the lower level, she was greeted by Mrs. Crumb, looking as perfectly put together as always. “Good morning, my lady. You have guests waiting in the primrose sitting room.”
Megs nearly gaped. Saint House had a primrose sitting room? “Er … which room might that be?”
“The third on the left, just past the library,” Mrs. Crumb said sedately.
Megs’s eyes widened. “The one with the ball of cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling?”
Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow twitched. “The very same.”
“Er …” Megs bit her lip, staring at the formidable housekeeper. “It doesn’t still—”
Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow slowly arched.
“No. No, of course not.” Megs smiled in relief.
The housekeeper nodded solemnly. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea and biscuits from Cook.”
Megs nearly gaped again. “We have a cook?”
“Indeed, my lady. Since this morning at six.”
“You’re a paragon, Mrs. Crumb!”
The housekeeper’s lips curved very, very slightly at the corners. “Thank you, my lady.”
Megs took a breath and smoothed her skirts before gliding down the hallway at a sedate pace. She opened the door to the primrose sitting room, bracing herself for some aged relation of Godric’s, but she immediately relaxed with relief when she saw the three ladies within.
“Oh, Mrs. St. John,” Megs exclaimed as she hurried forward. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming to London?”
Megs hugged the elder woman and then stood back. Godric’s stepmother was nearing her fifty-fifth year. A short, somewhat stout woman, she had the flaxen hair that all her daughters had inherited, though hers was faded now to a vague pale color. Mrs. St. John’s face had taken on a ruddy hue as she aged. She was a rather plain woman, physically, but one hardly noticed because of the vivaciousness of her expression. Megs knew from village gossip that Godric’s father had been deeply in love with his second wife.
“We took a page from your notebook, Megs, and thought it best to simply arrive on Godric’s doorstep.” Mrs. St. John huffed as she sat down on a settee.
“Rather like one of those vagabond peddlers,” Jane, eighteen and the youngest St. John sister, said. “The ones who won’t leave the doorstep until you buy some ratty length of ribbon.”
“That ribbon was not ratty.” Charlotte, who was two years older than Jane, looked indignant. “I vow you’re jealous because the peddler came around when you were out romping through the fields with Pat and Harriet.”
“Pat and Harriet needed a good run.” Jane pointed her nose in the air. “Besides, I wouldn’t want a ribbon that ratty if it were given to me.”
“Girls,” Mrs. St. John said, and both sisters abruptly shut their mouths. “I’m sure Megs doesn’t care to hear you bickering over fripperies and the dogs.”
Megs didn’t really mind. She found the St. John sisters’ obvious affection for each other—when they weren’t quarreling—rather refreshing, actually. She’d never been close to her own older sister, Caro. The St. John dower house was in the village of Upper Hornsfield, so she had the opportunity to observe the St. John sororal dynamics quite often.
“I can’t think where Sarah is,” she said diplomatically. “Or Godric, for that matter.”
“We were told that Godric had already gone out,” Jane informed her. “And no one could find Sarah.”
“That’s because I was out for a walk,” Sarah said from the doorway. The two little maids were behind her, carefully holding trays full of tea things. “I only just returned.”
Charlotte and Jane were up immediately, hugging and exclaiming over their sister as if they hadn’t seen her in months rather than little more than a week.
Mrs. Crumb entered the room with the maids during the flurry and quietly directed setting everything out. She glanced inquiringly at Megs when the maids were done. When Megs thanked her, Mrs. Crumb nodded and ushered the maids out, closing the door behind her.
“Mama,” Sarah said, leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek. “What a surprise.”
“That was the idea,” Mrs. St. John said.
Sarah sat. “Why?”
“Well, I thought this estrangement had gone on long enough, and since Godric obviously won’t do anything about it, I decided to. Thank you, dear.” Mrs. St. John accepted a dish of tea from Megs, sweetened with several spoons of sugar, just the way Megs knew she liked it. “And,” she added practically after taking a sip, “the girls and I are in need of new frocks, especially Jane since she’ll have her coming-out this autumn. You as well, Sarah, dear.”
“Oh, good,” Megs murmured. “I’ve been meaning to visit a modiste. We can all go together.”
“What fun!” Jane bounced in her seat. The door to the sitting room opened, but she continued, oblivious. “That sounds much more pleasant than having to visit grumpy old Godric.”
“Jane!” Megs hissed, but it was far too late.
“I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors,” Godric rasped from the doorway.
Megs bit her lip. He did not look pleased.