chapter Eleven
“Is this Hell?” Faith asked as she looked at the rocky shore. “No,” the Hellequin said. He’d either not noticed or not cared that she’d pushed Despair off the great black horse. “We still have a long journey ahead before we reach Hell. Before us now is the Peak of Whispers.” He pointed to a range of black, jagged mountains that loomed across the distant horizon. “Are you sure you wish to continue?” “Yes,” Faith said, and wrapped her arms about the Hellequin’s middle.
He merely nodded and spurred his horse on. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Grumpy old Godric.
It was a fair assessment—though Godric doubted that Jane had taken any time thinking the matter over. He was grumpy—or at least morose. And as for old, well, he supposed he was that as well—in comparison to his half sisters, anyway. He was seven and thirty. Sarah was a mere dozen years younger than he, but Charlotte was seventeen years younger and Jane nineteen.
He was old enough to be her father.
It was an unspannable gap—always had been, always would be.
“Godric,” his stepmother said softly. She rose and crossed to him, and then surprised him by taking one of his hands in her own, small soft ones. “It’s so good to see you.”
There it was, the guilt and anxious resentfulness he felt every time he saw this woman. She made him into an awkward schoolboy, and he hated it.
“Madam,” he said, aware that his tone was too stiff, too formal. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
She looked up at him—the top of her head came only to his midchest—and her eyes seemed to search for something in his face.
“We wanted to see you,” she said at last.
“And we need new frocks,” Jane said from behind her mother. His half sister’s tone was defiant, but her expression was uncertain.
He’d probably looked like that much of the time when he’d been her age.
Godric nodded, leading his stepmother over to where she’d been seated before. “How long do you intend to stay?”
“A fortnight,” his stepmother said.
“Ah,” Godric murmured, and felt Megs’s look. For the first time he glanced at his wife.
His wife, whom he’d bedded just last night.
She wore a smart pink gown with black figures and trimmings, her hair dark and lustrous, and she sat very straight, watching him with a worried frown knit between her gracefully arched brows. He nearly stopped breathing. She was so lovely, Megs, his wife. Had his father’s family not been here, he might’ve crossed to her, pulled her from her seat, and led her to their rooms where—
But, no.
She’d made quite plain that was not the type of arrangement she wanted with him. Even had his stepmother and sisters not been looking on curiously, he would’ve had to wait until tonight.
He was a stud, nothing more.
Godric took a breath, focusing once more on the conversation. “Would you like me to escort you to the shops?”
He saw Megs’s look of surprise out of the corner of his eye.
Jane, predictably, opened her mouth first, but the glance her mother shot her made her close it again very quickly.
His stepmother smiled at him. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
He nodded. Megs gave him a small, grateful grin and handed him a dish of tea—a drink he’d never particularly cared for. But he sipped it and let the women’s chatter flow around him, observing.
It seemed his wife had formed an intimate bond with his father’s family while she’d lived at Laurelwood. That wasn’t so surprising, he supposed, since the dower house was nearby. She made a pretty picture with his sisters, her dark head in contrast with their lighter ones. All three had inherited their mother’s coloring. Charlotte was the fairest, while Jane’s tawny locks were the darkest. Sarah sat next to Megs, laughing at something, and Jane was nearly in Charlotte’s lap, her arm draped companionably over her sister’s neck, the skirts of their dresses frothing over each other. His stepmother looked on benignly and the circle was complete: a feminine sorority perfect and exclusive.
Godric glanced down at his tea.
It would be awkward with his father’s family in the house. He still had to continue his Ghostly duties, find the lassie snatchers, and now Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer as well. Add to that Captain Trevillion watching him suspiciously, and his job had become much more difficult.
Not that obstacles would stop him.
“… if that’s agreeable with you, Godric?” his stepmother inquired.
He looked up to find five pairs of feminine eyes focused on him. Godric cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
Megs sighed, making him aware that he’d missed more than one or two sentences. “We’ve decided to visit the modiste directly after luncheon and then tonight we’re to dine with Griffin and Hero. But”—she turned to his father’s family—“I’m sure Hero will invite you as well, once she hears you’re in town.”
Jane’s eyes rounded in awe. “She’s the daughter of a duke, isn’t she?”
Megs smiled. “And the sister of one. In fact, the duke may be there as well tonight.”
For a moment, the girl was frozen in apparent awe. Then she burst into a flurry of excited movement, chattering all the while about dresses and shoes and what would she wear?
Godric sighed. This was going to be a long day. He caught Megs watching him with a small, approving tilt to her lips.
But perhaps it would be worth it.
THAT NIGHT, MEGS watched as the Duke of Wakefield frowned down at his nephew in ducal disapproval and said, “I don’t understand why the boy cries every time he sees me.”
“He’s developing good taste,” Griffin replied kindly as he picked up sweet William, who immediately quieted, leaning against his father’s chest as he sucked on his forefinger.
Hero rolled her eyes discreetly—something she would never have done before marrying Griffin.
They were in the family sitting room where William had been brought down by his nurse before being put to bed. Great-Aunt Elvina leaned close to Hero, her hand behind her ear to hear whatever Hero was shouting at her. Jane sat ramrod straight, her eyes wide in awe as she watched every movement the Duke of Wakefield made. Beside her, her sisters and mother were more relaxed, obviously enjoying being in such exalted company. Knowing how the gossip mill worked in Upper Hornsfield, Megs knew they could dine upon this night for months. Godric stood near the mantel, watching. Megs frowned. Why was it that he always seemed so apart, even when in the midst of his own family?
William made a sound, drawing her eyes. A splotch of baby drool darkened Griffin’s waistcoat and Megs couldn’t help smirking. Her brother had been such a notorious rake before meeting Hero.
“May I?” she asked shyly, indicating William.
“Of course.”
Griffin placed sweet William in her arms and then she was being examined by large, green eyes the exact shade of his sire. He was heavier than she’d expected, a solid, warm bundle, smelling faintly of milk and biscuits. William had reddish-brown, curling hair, plump cheeks, and his lips, pursed around his finger, were so rosy and sweet Megs couldn’t help kissing him on his little forehead.
Soon, oh, please let it be soon.
William withdrew his finger from his mouth and patted her cheek wetly.
“Babies are terribly messy,” Great-Aunt Elvina announced, then ruined her stern words by making clucking noises at William.
“He’s teething again,” Hero said beside Megs. “Do you want me to take him? He’ll think nothing of ruining your dress.”
“No, let me hold him a bit longer,” Megs murmured. “He’s quite beautiful.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” Hero’s mouth curved in maternal love.
A pang of desperate longing went through Megs’s breast. This. This was what she wanted.
She looked up and met Godric’s watchful eyes. As if he’d heard her thoughts, he inclined his head almost like he was making a promise. Her breath caught. What other man would be so good to her? He was so protective, so kind. He’d spent the day escorting her and the St. John women about to shops, never once making a demure or seeming bored by frivolous feminine things. The day had been so enjoyable that she’d remembered only as she’d been dressing for dinner that he’d promised to look for Roger’s murderer. And she knew she ought to ask him what his plans were, to press him on the point and make sure he wasn’t going to conveniently forget his vow, but she simply wanted a small respite from the matter.
From death and grief and loss. If only—
“Ah, Mandeville,” the duke drawled.
Megs turned to see that her other brother, Thomas Reading, the Marquess of Mandeville, had arrived. Beside him was his vivacious wife, Lavinia, whose hair had grown if anything more brightly red since Megs had last seen her.
“You’ve got a spot on your waistcoat,” Thomas said to Griffin.
“Yes, I know,” Griffin replied through gritted teeth.
Megs sighed. Her brothers weren’t the best of friends, but at least they now spoke to each other. For several weeks after Griffin’s marriage, that hadn’t been the case.
The gentlemen converged, speaking in low tones about politics before the butler interrupted with the call for supper.
Hero took sweet William from Megs’s arms, bussing him on the cheek before giving him over to his nurse with a murmured word and a lingering look as they left the sitting room. She caught Megs’s eye and smiled ruefully. “I usually put him to sleep myself. It’s silly of me, I know, but I hate letting someone else do it.”
“You can look in on him later,” Griffin said tenderly, offering Hero his arm.
She took it, wrinkling her nose up at him. “You shouldn’t indulge my sentimental quirks.”
“But I like indulging you,” he whispered into the auburn curls at her temple, and Megs blushed, rather thinking she wasn’t meant to hear that last part.
“Shall we?” Godric was at her side.
“Of course.” She laid her fingers on his forearm, realizing that they trembled slightly. There was something about being this close to him, a warmth that transmitted itself from his body to hers, a kind of vibration almost, so that her body seemed to tune itself to his. And she realized with almost horror that even if he weren’t the means to give her a baby, she wanted him.
That isn’t right, she thought shakily as he led her into the dining room and pulled out her chair. She sank into the seat without thought, her mind full of a confused buzzing. Her body wasn’t supposed to long for his. She’d loved Roger, and although she was grateful to Godric and had come to know him a little more, had, perhaps, a kind of admiration for him, that wasn’t love.
Her body shouldn’t respond without love; it just shouldn’t.
She realized that Charlotte sat to her left—the gentlemen were overmatched by the ladies—and, oh dear, to her right was the duke. Megs mentally sighed. The Duke of Wakefield was a rather daunting gentleman to make dinner conversation with. The footmen brought out great platters of fish and began serving as Megs searched her mind for something to say to His Grace.
Instead it was he who turned to her. “I trust you enjoyed the play at Harte’s Folly last night, my lady?”
“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, watching as he tore apart a crusty roll. “And you?”
“I confess that the theater doesn’t entertain me,” he replied, his voice bored, but then something softened about his eyes as he glanced at her. “But both Phoebe and Cousin Bathilda like it very much.”
For the first time, Megs felt a faint liking for the duke. “Do you take them there often?”
He shrugged. “There or other theaters in London. They also like the opera, particularly Phoebe. I think the music partially compensates for the fact that she can’t entirely see the stage.” He frowned down at his fish as if it had offended him.
Megs felt a pang. “It’s that bad, then?”
He merely nodded and seemed relieved when Thomas’s voice rose farther down the table.
“The act hasn’t been given enough time,” he was telling Griffin. “When the gin sellers all have been arrested, then the drink must perforce be reduced in the streets of London.”
“It’s been two years,” Griffin growled back, “and your gin act hasn’t done much more than line the pockets of a few crooked informers. I could still buy gin at every fourth house in St. Giles were I wont.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed as the footmen brought in the next course—a roasted joint and various vegetables—and he opened his mouth to retort.
But the duke intervened. “Griffin is right.”
Both brothers turned to him, astonished. The duke was not a bosom-bow of Griffin’s—he’d been determinedly against the younger brother’s marrying his sister—and Megs knew Thomas considered him a friend and ally.
But the duke set his fork down and sat back. “The act has had two years to effect change and it hasn’t. The only real good it’s done is correct the faults of the ‘36 act, which”—the duke grimaced—“is faint praise indeed. We are at an impasse. London cannot continue with the loss of vigor and blood that gin sucks from it like some ungodly parasite.”
“What do you suggest?” Thomas asked slowly.
The duke pinned him with his cold eyes. “We need a new act.”
Griffin, Thomas, and the duke burst into furious political argument while Godric twirled his wineglass, his eyes intent as he followed the discussion. He wasn’t a peer, so he didn’t sit in Parliament, but every male seemed infected by the blight of gin these days and the discussion on what to do about it.
And, of course, the blight of gin affected everything in St. Giles.
Megs sighed and turned toward Charlotte on her other side. “Are you pleased with the gowns you selected today?”
“Yes, although I did want that sky-blue moiré.”
Charlotte cast a disgruntled glance at Jane across the table. The sisters had nearly come to blows over the gorgeous fabric before Mrs. St. John had hushed them with the simple threat that no one would get the sky-blue moiré if the matter wasn’t decided in the next second. Charlotte and Jane had looked at each other silently and Charlotte had huffed and conceded the silk to Jane. Ten minutes later, they were enjoying ices, elbows linked, bright blond heads together, and one would never have known the sisters had fought so adamantly just moments before.
Which didn’t mean that Charlotte had entirely forgiven her sister, of course.
“You did get that lovely turquoise brocade,” Megs reminded her diplomatically.
“Yes,” Charlotte said, brightening, “and those delicious lace mitts.” She sighed happily before turning to Megs. “That peachy-pink silk is going to look so pretty with your dark hair. I’m sure Godric will be smitten.”
Megs smiled, but she couldn’t help her gaze sliding away from her sister-in-law’s. Did she want Godric smitten? She glanced up and saw that he was watching her now, his gray eyes heavily lidded, his long, elegant fingers still playing with the stem of his wineglass.
Twirling. Twirling. Twirling.
Her face heated for some reason and she looked hastily away again, taking a sip of her wine to calm herself.
“Megs?” Charlotte asked hesitantly.
Megs focused her attention on her sister-in-law. “Yes?”
Charlotte was pushing together a mound of creamed potatoes and parsnips, pressing the tines into the fluffy vegetables to make small, parallel furrows. She leaned close to Megs, her voice lowering. “Do you think Godric will ever …” She cleared her throat as if searching for the word, her forehead compressing into furrows that matched the ones on her plate. “Do you think he’ll ever want to be close to us?”
“I don’t know,” Megs said honestly. Having heard Godric’s recollections of his youth, she knew now the broad gulf between him and the rest of his family had started long before Clara’s death had made him a near hermit. They were so very far apart. Could anything bridge a gap widened by both time and distance?
Megs bit her lip and sat back as the footmen cleared their plates and brought in individual glasses of syllabub.
“It’s just …” Charlotte was still frowning, peering now at her dish of syllabub. She picked up her spoon and poked the quivering mass, then sighed and set her spoon down again. “I remember when I was very young. He seemed so tall and strong then. I thought he was a god, my elder brother. Mama says I used to follow him about like a chick when he visited, though that wasn’t often. He must’ve found it very boring to be tagged by a girl child still in the nursery.”
Megs rather wanted to hurl her own spoon at her husband at that moment.
“I doubt very much that he was bored by you,” she said gently. “It’s just that your mother married your father when Godric was at a difficult age for a boy. And, too, he’d lost his own mother. …” She trailed off, feeling inadequate. The fact was that Godric might’ve been hurt as a lad, but he was a man now. There was no reason for him to hold himself apart from his sisters.
“He’s my brother,” Charlotte whispered so low that Megs nearly didn’t catch the words. “My only brother.”
And even the delicious syllabub didn’t make up for the sinking of Megs’s heart at those words. She had to find a way to make Godric see that his sisters and stepmother were important. This might be his only chance. Once they were married and had families of their own, they’d have far less incentive to want to bring him into their fold.
He’d end up entirely alone.
Megs slowly lowered her spoon to her empty dish at the thought. She’d promised to leave London—leave Godric—once she was with child. She’d have the baby and all her friends and relations in the country. She lived a full and happy life there—one that wanted only a child of her own. But Godric …
Well, who did Godric have, really?
There was his friend, Lord Caire. But Lord Caire had his own family—one that would no doubt grow and demand more of his time. She had a vision of Godric, old and alone, surrounded by his books and little else. Someday he’d have to give up being the Ghost of St. Giles—always assuming he didn’t die doing it—and then he’d have … nothing.
The thought was distressing. Megs looked over at Godric, who was now bending down to listen to something Lavinia was saying. She might not love him, but he was her husband. Her responsibility. How had she not seen before that she couldn’t leave him alone?
The gentlemen suddenly rose and Megs realized that she’d missed Hero inviting the ladies to the sitting room for tea. The duke held Mrs. St. John’s chair for her and then Megs’s—putting age before rank, and quite properly in Megs’s opinion.
Mrs. St. John linked arms with Megs on one side and Charlotte on the other. “And what were you two whispering about so seriously during the dessert?”
“Godric.” Charlotte sighed, and Mrs. St. John merely nodded because there wasn’t much to say to that, was there?
In the sitting room, Hero was already serving tea while Sarah sat at the harpsichord, experimentally plunking the keys.
“Oh, do sing, girls,” Mrs. St. John said as she took a cup of tea. “That old ballad you learned the other day.”
So Jane and Charlotte linked arms and sang to Sarah’s accompaniment, for as it turned out the ballad was to a tune Sarah already knew.
“Lovely, quite lovely,” Great-Aunt Elvina murmured, tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair in time to the song.
Megs leaned back and listened with enjoyment. Her own voice would startle a crow, but she did like to hear others sing and the St. John girls, while not the most polished voices she’d ever heard, were very pleasant. If they stopped now and again to giggle and retry a phrasing, Megs didn’t mind. They were singing to family, and she was rather pleased that they had become comfortable enough with Hero and Lavinia to include them in that designation.
After an hour, the gentlemen joined them and Megs saw the moment the St. John girls instinctively stiffened. She sighed. It was hard to be relaxed with either Thomas or the duke about. But Griffin was here now and she was determined to talk to him.
So she sidled up to her brother and in a low tone suggested he show her his new house—after all, she hadn’t been given a proper tour before.
Griffin gave her an alert look, but he held out his arm readily enough, leading her out of the sitting room with a murmured word to Hero. Megs felt Godric’s curious gaze even after they’d shut the door behind them. The house was quiet outside the sitting room, until the harpsichord started again and a beautiful baritone voice began singing. Megs knit her eyebrows. That was funny. Thomas had no more vocal talent than she, and she hadn’t been aware that Godric could sing.
But Griffin was leading her to the grand staircase and muttering something about skylights and pilasters and the Italian influence. Megs squinted at him. Was he having her on?
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Griffin, do stop,” she said at last.
He turned and grinned down at her mischievously. “Thought you didn’t really want to tour the house. What is it, Megs?”
“You and gin distilling,” she said bluntly, because she couldn’t think of any way to get to the point delicately, and anyway, she hadn’t the time.
“What about me and gin distilling?” he asked carelessly, but his face had closed, which on Griffin was a dead giveaway.
She took a deep breath. “I heard that you used to support the family, even Thomas, by distilling gin in St. Giles.”
“Goddamn St. John!” he exploded. “He had no right to tell you.”
Megs raised her eyebrows. “I think he did have a right. I’m his wife and more importantly your sister. Griffin! Why ever didn’t you tell us that we were in financial straits?”
“It wasn’t your business.”
“Wasn’t our business?” She gaped at her older brother and not for the first time thought how much a good knock on the head might suit him. “Caro and I were spending money as if we hadn’t a care in the world. I distinctly remember Thomas buying that terrible gilt-trimmed carriage after Papa died. Surely he wouldn’t have done that had he known. Of course it was our business. We could’ve been more frugal. Could’ve minded our purchases.”
“I didn’t want you to mind your purchases.” Griffin expelled a hard breath, stepping back from her. “Don’t you see, Megs? That was my burden to bear. I was supposed to take care of you and Mater and Caro.”
“And Thomas?” she asked softly, incredulously.
“He hasn’t a head for money. Neither did Pater. There wasn’t anyone else.”
“Griffin,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. “There was me. Maybe not when I was younger, but I’ve been past twenty for five years now. I had the right to provide mental support for you at the very least. I had the right to know.”
Griffin grimaced and looked away. Megs expected him to refute her right—the Griffin of three years ago, prior to marrying Hero, would’ve—but when he glanced back at her, his eyes had softened.
“Oh, Megs,” he said. “You know I can’t deny you anything.” She arched her eyebrows pointedly, and he threw up his hands. “Fine. Yes. Yes, I should’ve told you, should’ve let you shoulder a bit of my burden.”
“Thank you,” she said, not without a hint of complacency. “I have one more question.”
He looked a little hunted but nodded his head bravely enough.
“Is the family still in financial straits?” she asked. “Are you in financial straits?”
“No,” he said immediately, with what sounded like relief. “I’m still in filthy business, of course, but it’s respectable enough now. I’ve got sheep grazing on the family lands and a workshop here in London spinning the wool.” He shrugged. “It’s small now, but we’re making a good profit and I’ll be expanding soon. Not”—he added wryly—“that I’d ever say that aloud in society.”
Having money was good, naturally. Actually making money was deeply frowned upon by society. Presumably a gentleman would rather starve than let his hands get dirty with commerce.
Megs was very grateful that Griffin had never cared particularly for society’s rules.
She threaded her arm through his elbow. “I’m glad to hear it. But, Griffin?”
“Hmm?” He was strolling with her back toward the sitting room where the baritone was still singing.
“Promise me that if ever you run into straits again—financial or otherwise—you’ll tell me.”
“Oh, all right, Megs,” he replied, rolling his eyes a bit.
She smiled to herself. He might balk, but it was important to her that Griffin was honest with her. A family should be honest. And they should share things—both good and bad.
She was reflecting on the subject and wondering how exactly she could push Godric in that direction with his own family when they entered the sitting room and she stopped short in surprise.
It seemed the Duke of Wakefield had a magnificent singing voice.
MEGS LAY IN her bed that night, surrounded by the cold darkness of her room, and tried not to anticipate Godric’s arrival.
Tried not to long for him.
She lectured herself on the reasons why she was doing this, but the arguments had become muddled in her own mind and all she could hear was the drag of her breaths in and out of her body. She focused on the dinner at Griffin and Hero’s house, the face of sweet William, the accord she’d found with Griffin, the astonishing sight of the rigid Duke of Wakefield singing like a stern archangel, but each image wavered and slipped through her mind’s grasp. She even tried remembering the taste of the syllabub at dinner, the smooth texture of cream, the tart wine, but the phantom sweet dissolved in her mouth, and all she could taste on her tongue was Godric’s mouth.
There in the darkness she might’ve moaned.
He came at last, moving like the ghost he was. She didn’t even know he’d entered her room until she felt the dip of her bed, the warmth radiating off his body.
She trembled before he ever touched her.
Then his hands were gliding over her shoulders, sweeping down her chemise-covered sides, sliding up the slopes of her breasts while his head and shoulders hovered over her like a hawk shielding its prey.
Her breath caught. There was something dangerous about him. Perhaps there always had been and he’d simply damped it the night before. This was only their second joining and she nearly panicked at the thought. There would be many nights more. Nights when she lay in the dark and waited for him. Nights when she desperately tried to order her mind. Nights when she tried not to feel.
As she was trying not to feel now—trying and failing.
His hands moved, swift and sure, cupping her breasts, and she had no trouble at all remembering their pale, elegant length. Imagining what they would look like against her flesh.
She bit her lip, and his thumbs coasted over her nipples, catching, for they were already erect and pointed. Goose pimples shivered across her skin at his touch. When he brushed across her nipples again and then pinched both at once, it was all she could do not to arch into those beautiful hands.
Roger. She had to think of Roger.
His head descended with alarming swiftness and suddenly his mouth, hot and wet, was on her nipple. He tongued her through the thin fabric of her chemise and all thought scattered. She arched beneath him, whimpering. His hands clamped around her rib cage, holding her still. His pendant slid coolly across her belly as he suckled her nipple hard. He let go and drew back, blowing on her oversensitive skin, covered only by the wet fabric, and she shivered under the sudden chill. Then he was ministering to her other breast, thoroughly, intently. His focus entirely on her and her body. She hadn’t time to recover, to regain control under his sexual siege.
She could only feel and yearn.
He lifted his head finally, when her breath was ragged and nearly broken, and began trailing his open mouth down her quivering belly. At first she had no idea of his intent—couldn’t even think—but as his hand bunched up her chemise and moved lower still, she had a terrible premonition.
“No.” It was the first word spoken between them since he’d entered her room, and it sounded overly harsh to her own ears.
Megs licked her lips, feeling her heart still beating too fast in her chest, the obscene dampness on both her nipples, and the still of the night.
He’d frozen at her word, but it wasn’t in fear or apprehension. His stance, hovering over her, his arms on either side of her hips, seemed dangerous somehow. As if his will were held back by only a tiny thread. As if he might ignore her plea and place his mouth against her anyway.
Against her cunny.
That’s where he had been moving. She was no virgin and she knew what his intent was: to disintegrate her composure. She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d succumb to that beautiful mouth, that quiet expertise, and she’d forget everything.
The last vestiges of Roger would dissolve and blow away from her mind.
So she inhaled slowly and reached tentatively for his shoulders. His muscles were bunched, hard and unyielding, and she couldn’t move him if he did not wish it.
“Please,” she whispered.
For a moment more he didn’t move. Then he was shaking her hand off his shoulder, hauling up her chemise, settling between her thighs. She was already wet, but perhaps not quite enough. He rocked against her, his penis a hard prod, sliding in her moisture before catching and slowly beginning to invade.
She swallowed, arching her head back, trying to relax as he slid more and more of himself into her. Animals did this without thought. Why, then, couldn’t people? She knew some did. But not her it seemed.
She thought—felt—far too much.
She gripped his arms as he shoved resolutely against her, seating himself fully. She looked up, trying to see something of him in the darkness. An expression, perhaps how he held his head.
But he was simply a large male shape.
And yet … she knew it was him. Would’ve known it blindfolded. Whether by scent or some more primitive means—perhaps an alchemy of souls—she felt him bone-deep.
Godric. Poised above her.
Godric. Withdrawing his cock in one long, pulling slide.
Godric. Flexing his hips back into her with a final twist at the end.
He was overpowering her senses, laying claim to her soul.
She struggled internally, resisting, closing her eyes, dropping her hands from his arms, trying to shut away her senses.
But that was impossible. How could it not be? He was making love to her.
She tried her best, she really did, and in the end she had one small victory: As his thrusts grew harder and closer to his point, she held herself together. He shook against her, rubbing into her, making her feel, but she was stubborn and strong, and when finally he shuddered, the dark shape of his head arching back, it was by himself.
She had no time to congratulate herself.
He leaned down in the dark and she thought he meant to kiss her. She turned her head aside and it was in her ear he whispered huskily, so close she could feel the brush of his lips.
“Who are you making love to, my lady? For I know it’s not me.”