chapter Sixteen
The great black horse came down off the Peak of Whispers and Faith saw before them a vast, barren plain, stretching as far as the eye could see.
“Is this Hell?” she murmured in the Hellequin’s ear. He shook his head. “This is the Plain of Madness. It will take us two days to cross it.”
She shivered and huddled closer to the Hellequin’s big form, for even with the cloak it was growing colder. And as she did so, she looked down and saw white wisps swirling aimlessly in the dust on the ground. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
“Sir.”
Godric came fully awake in the darkness of his own bedroom, aware that it’d been Moulder whispering.
He blinked at the manservant, raising his eyebrows as the man merely tilted his head toward the hallway. Moulder was dressed in a rather ornate orange banyan and tasseled cap and held a single candlestick in his hand.
Godric pulled the coverlet more securely around Megs’s shoulders and slipped carefully from the bed. He quickly donned breeches, shirt, and banyan and then padded out of the room after Moulder.
“What is it?” he asked once they had made the hallway without waking Megs.
“Mr. Makepeace,” Moulder replied. “He’s here and he insisted on speaking with you, despite the hour.”
Godric could think of only one reason for the home’s manager to call on him in the middle of the night. “Show me.”
They descended the stairs silently to the ground floor.
Makepeace turned as they entered the study. “I’m sorry to disturb you, St. John.” He eyed Moulder, standing beside the closed door, for a moment before raising his brows. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”
“No need.” Godric gestured to one of the wing chairs in the room, waiting for his guest to seat himself before taking one. “Moulder is in my confidence.”
“Ah.” Makepeace nodded. “Then I shall come straight to the point. Alf told me not more than an hour ago that she had found the last workshop.”
Godric was up at once, stripping off the banyan. “Moulder, give me a hand here. We’ll have to take off the boards on my wrist.”
“Is that wise?” Makepeace was looking worriedly at his immobilized arm.
“We can’t wait—Alf might try to rescue her friend by herself.” Godric arched an eyebrow. “Unless you think we can persuade the third one of us to come and rescue the girls?” At Makepeace’s frown, he shook his head. “I’m our only choice. The wrist has healed well enough. If Moulder can fashion a smaller, softer brace—”
“Godric?”
All three men looked up at the sound of the study door opening. Megs stood there, her glorious hair tumbled about her shoulders, a hand at her throat holding her wrapper closed, and Godric immediately wondered if that was the only thing she wore.
But his lady wife had other matters on her mind. She came into the room and shut the door behind her. “What is happening, Godric?”
Moulder had found a sharp knife but was standing frozen. Godric took the knife and began awkwardly cutting the bindings holding the two boards on his left arm. “I have to go out.”
“May I?” Makepeace was beside him and Godric nodded, handing the knife over so the other man could work more ably on the bindings.
“As the Ghost of St. Giles?” Megs whispered.
“Yes.” Godric kept his eyes on the work that Makepeace was doing.
“You can’t.” He could feel her stepping closer; then her hand was on his shoulder. “Godric! This is madness. You’ve only begun to heal. You’ll break your wrist again if you go out, and who knows if the doctor will be able to set it. You could be crippled for life—assuming you’re not killed.” He heard her huff of desperate exasperation and then she was addressing Makepeace. “Why are you making him do this?”
The home’s manager widened his eyes. “I …”
“Because I’m the only one who can do this.” Godric looked at her finally. Megs didn’t know Makepeace had been a Ghost once, but it didn’t matter: the man had sworn to his lady wife not to take up the swords again. “Megs, there are little girls in peril.”
She closed her eyes at that, visibly fighting something within herself. “Can you promise that this will be the last time? That you won’t be the Ghost of St. Giles anymore?”
He watched as the last strap was cut away, freeing his arm. The swelling had gone down, but there were nasty purple-black bruises around the wrist. He didn’t dare try flexing it. Moulder brought forth an old pair of stays they’d previously cut down to fit from his knuckles to his elbow in preparation for his next trip to St. Giles. He began binding it onto Godric’s arm.
“Godric?”
“No.” He didn’t dare look at her. “No, I cannot promise that.”
“Then promise me you’ll return alive and whole.”
He couldn’t do such a thing. She knew that. Yet he found himself saying, “I promise.”
The door opened and shut quietly.
Makepeace cleared his throat. “Perhaps if I alerted the dragoons—”
“We’ve been over this. Trevillion would take hours to agree—if he could be persuaded at all—and then hours more to mobilize his men.” He met the other man’s gaze. “Are you willing to risk the workshop moving again—or the girls being killed to cover the evidence?”
Makepeace flinched. “No.”
Godric looked down just as Moulder tied off the last binding. He swung the arm experimentally. If he made sure to favor it, it should do all right. “In that case, perhaps you can help me get ready?”
“Very well,” the home’s manager said. “And then we’ll need to plan a way to get past the dragoon standing guard over your house.”
“He’s still there?”
“Oh, indeed,” Makepeace said drily. “And he no doubt saw my arrival.”
Godric contemplated that fact while Moulder finished dressing him in his Ghost costume. When he sheathed his sword five minutes later, he nodded to Makepeace. “Come with me.”
Godric doused the candles in the study and crossed to the long doors that led out into Saint House’s garden. He spent a full minute waiting for his eyes to adjust as he carefully peered out, but saw no one. If Trevillion was good enough to hide from him in his own garden, he deserved to be caught.
Cautiously, he opened the doors and stole out into the moonlight, Makepeace a silent shadow behind him. The home’s manager might not have donned the mask of the Ghost for over two years, but it was obvious that he’d not lost any of his skill in that time. The old fruit tree made a macabre outline against the night sky, and as he passed it, Godric wondered how long before Megs gave up and conceded that the thing was dead.
Then he shoved any thoughts of his wife from his mind. He needed to concentrate if he was to survive this night. Past the garden was the old river wall, the sound of lapping water and the stink of the river rising from beyond. An ancient gate pierced the wall, a crumbling arch crowning it. Godric pushed open the gate, glad that he made Moulder oil it monthly.
He grinned in the dark as the other man followed him. “One of the few advantages to owning a very old London house.”
They stood at the top of a set of bare stone steps, set flat into the river wall. Below was a small dock with a rowboat tied to a post. Godric led the way down, stepping carefully into the rowboat. He picked up one oar while Makepeace settled into the boat; then with a practiced movement, he used it to shove away from the dock and began sculling quietly downriver, using only his right hand.
They hadn’t far to go. At the next set of river stairs, Godric maneuvered the rowboat in and tied it up.
“You’ll not be able to use that method again,” Makepeace said as they climbed the steps. “Trevillion is smart. He’ll figure out how you slipped past him when he hears about your activity tonight.”
“Then I’d best make sure I need not return again.” Godric shrugged and amended his statement, “At least not for a while.”
He felt the other man’s gaze upon him as they made their way into the warren of streets beyond the river. This area wasn’t rich, but it was certainly respectable enough. Lanterns shown by nearly every door and they were forced to keep close to what shadows they could find.
“This life isn’t best suited for a married man,” Makepeace observed neutrally.
“I’ve been married nearly two years,” Godric replied. He didn’t want to think about Megs’s reproachful face right now.
“But living apart.”
They paused at the corner of a cobbler’s shop as a night watchman went limping by.
Godric glanced at the other man and Makepeace raised his brows. “Your good wife only came to London recently, yes?”
“Yes.” Godric shook his head irritably. “What of it?”
Makepeace shrugged. “Most would take the change as opportunity to quit this life.”
“And leave those children to be worked to death? Is that what you’re proposing?”
“No, but perhaps the dragoons could be of more use, especially,” Makepeace said drily, “if we let Trevillion in on the information we sometimes get.”
Godric snorted. “You think Captain Trevillion would bother himself with mundanities such as little girl slaves?”
“I think he’s not so unreasonable as he appears.”
Godric stared at the other man. “What makes you say that?”
A corner of Makepeace’s mouth lifted. “A feeling?”
“A feeling.” They were nearly in St. Giles now, walking fast. Godric drew his sword, ignoring the slight discomfort in his left wrist. He used his short sword as a defense weapon, and the knowledge that he was without it made him uneasy. “Pardon me if I do not put much trust in your ‘feelings.’”
“As you wish,” Makepeace said, easily matching his stride. “But please remember that not even Sir Stanley Gilpin expected us to do this for the rest of our lives.”
Godric stopped short, whirling to face the other man. They never said that name to each other. In fact, until Winter had spoken to him about the lassie snatchers, they hadn’t even acknowledged each other for years—since before Sir Stanley had died, he realized now.
Makepeace had stopped at his abrupt movement and was watching him with eyes that might have held sympathy. “I’ve been thinking recently about Sir Stanley.”
Godric flinched at the name of the man who’d been more father to him than his own father. Something inside of him wanted to weep and he repressed it savagely. “What about him?”
Makepeace cocked his head, his eyes sliding contemplatively to the full moon, half hidden by the rooftops above. “I wonder what he would make of us now. Your near-suicidal drive, our compatriot’s obsession, my own solitude until my dear wife drew me from it … somehow I don’t think this is what he meant for us to be. Sir Stanley was so playful in everything he did—the theater, teaching us tumbling, even while practicing sword craft. It was all a great, amusing lark for him. Not something to be taken seriously. Not something to die for—or to forsake life for. I don’t think he would’ve been proud of us for doing so.”
“He created us,” Godric said softly, “but we’re thinking creations with our own motivations. He cannot have been surprised when we made our own use of his instructions.”
“Perhaps.” Makepeace looked at him. “But it’s something to consider nonetheless.”
Godric didn’t bother answering that, merely breaking into a jog as they neared the home.
Five minutes later, they saw the familiar steps and lit front door. Godric slowed, peering cautiously around. “Alf?”
“She was to meet us here, but she wouldn’t come inside the home,” Makepeace muttered. He sighed. “I’ll go see if she changed her mind.”
But the moment he stepped from the shadows, Alf glided over, so quickly that Godric wasn’t sure where she’d been hiding. “Is ’e ’ere?”
“Yes.” Godric stepped out of the darkness.
The girl whirled, obviously having not noticed him before. She cocked her head when she saw that he bore only one sword. “Can you fight like that?”
Godric inclined his head in a curt nod.
“Good luck,” Makepeace said grimly.
“Come on.” The girl led the way, winding through the alleys of St. Giles. She didn’t try to move up into the rooftops, which Godric was grateful for. He might be able to fight with one hand, but he didn’t want to try climbing.
They were in a narrow tunnel, approaching a courtyard, when Alf stopped short. Godric could see movement in the courtyard beyond her, but only her cry made him realize what was happening.
“They’re taking away the lassies!”
At once he pushed past her. If the girls were moved, they might never find them again.
A man, obviously a guard, stood by as a tall, thin woman dragged two girls from a low cellar. Two more waited dispiritedly at the other end of the courtyard.
Godric charged the guard silently, dodging a blow made too late as the guard realized his danger and then hitting the man in the temple with the butt of his sword.
The guard crumpled, immobile.
The woman screamed, high and shrill, and two more men emerged from the cellar. Fortunately the door was so narrow they could exit only one at a time. Godric ran one through and caught the other by the arm, swinging him hard into the wall. The man’s head bounced off the brick with a wet sound.
He turned to the woman to see if she would attack, but she was already running out the far side of the courtyard. The girls were huddled together. One was crying, but the others were apparently too petrified to make a sound.
A scrape came from behind him, and Godric twisted around only just in time: a fourth man had already emerged.
And this one had a sword.
Godric parried the strike. The blades slid along each other, screeching, and then broke apart. Godric backed a pace, watching the swordsman advance. Only aristocrats were allowed by law to carry swords. He tried to catch a glimpse of the other man’s face, but he wore a tricorne and had wound his neck cloth around the lower half of his face.
Then he had no more time to ponder his attacker’s face. The man was on him, his sword flashing with compact, deadly intensity—expert intensity.
Godric knew if he backed any farther, he’d be cornered. He feinted left and ducked right, hearing the rip of his cloak as he just managed to pass the other man. He whirled to repel a savage thrust and then lunged for the other man’s exposed flank. His opponent curved to the side, his arm outthrust. Godric felt the blade tip run a line up the entire length of his right arm, searing like a brand. His sleeve flapped open and warmth began to run down his arm, but the cut must not’ve been deep—he could still use the arm. Godric attacked again. He thrust into the other’s face, making the man arch back. His blade was caught, but he jerked it free, circling as he did so, trying to yank the other’s sword from his hand. But the man leaped back, recovering, his blade still in his grip. The swordsman’s neck cloth slipped and for a moment Godric looked him full in the face.
Then the swordsman stabbed to Godric’s right and too late Godric realized it was a feint. He wasn’t quick enough to parry the sword thrust with his blade, but he brought his left arm up, catching the blow on his elbow.
His entire arm sang with agony.
His opponent turned and leaped away, running toward the alley on the farther side of the courtyard. Godric instinctively lunged after the man, the need to give chase and bring down his prey driving strong. His left arm was throbbing hard, though, and he remembered the promise he’d made to Megs. He’d said he’d return unharmed and alive.
Well, at least he was alive.
He turned wearily back to the children in time to see Alf kneel in front of a small, grimy redheaded girl. Alf was scowling fiercely, perhaps in an attempt to keep from seeming like she cared as she tenderly wiped the child’s tearstained face.
The sight almost made his heart lighten. He tried to tell himself that the girls were rescued and that was the main thing, but it didn’t lift the leaden weight in his chest. He’d seen the face of his attacker, the man responsible for enslaving children in St. Giles, the man he’d let escape alive, and Godric knew that the man was near untouchable. He’d never be brought to justice.
For the swordsman had been the Earl of Kershaw.
THERE WAS BLOOD on Godric.
Megs couldn’t think, couldn’t see beyond that one stark fact. She stood stock-still for an awful, endless minute after he opened the door to his bedroom, simply staring at the long bandage on his right arm and the slit, bloody sleeve that hung, flapping. She’d been waiting there, awake and pacing, ever since he’d left, and the room was in a bit of a mess—not that she cared. Moulder was behind him and Godric was saying something, but she couldn’t hear.
“Get out,” she told the manservant, unable to even phrase the order politely.
Moulder took one look at her and fled.
Godric wasn’t so smart. He was frowning slightly now and saying something about a minor cut and looks worse than it is, and Moulder has already seen to it, despite the fact that anyone could see he was holding his left arm stiffly as well, and she just wanted to hit him.
Instead she grabbed his face in both of her hands and stood on tiptoe to bring her mouth to his. She kissed him savagely, her lips wide, her tongue demanding wet access to his mouth, and it was a damned good thing he opened at once, because she would’ve bitten him if he hadn’t. She heard him groan and then his arms started to wrap around her, but she wasn’t having any of it.
She broke free to attack the falls of his Ghost costume. “You lied to me.”
“I came back alive,” he said in a soothing voice. At least he never pretended that he didn’t know the reason for her anger.
“I said alive and whole,” she snapped, finally wrenching two buttons off. “That is not whole.”
“Megs,” he started, no doubt to make some stupid male excuse, and she shoved him none too gently into the one straight-backed chair.
She wasn’t strong enough to manhandle him—she knew that somewhere in the back of her maddened brain. He must be conceding to her anger, letting her push him about.
Perversely it only made her madder.
She dropped to her knees, roughly spreading his legs and shuffling forward between them.
His eyes widened, which, at any other time she might’ve taken pride in. The man had been the Ghost of St. Giles for years—there mustn’t be many things that could surprise him.
“What—”
She reached forward and yanked open his fall and the smallclothes beneath, watching in satisfaction as his cock bobbed out, ruddy and half hard.
She took his length gently between her hands, her arms resting on his thighs, and looked up into his face. “I’m very, very angry with you.”
And she opened her mouth over him. She’d never done this—although she’d wanted to before. She’d always been too shy, too worried that he’d think her sluttish or not like what she did.
But here, now, she simply didn’t care anymore.
She trailed a line of kisses down his length, marveling at the pulsing warmth within him, then licked up the strong tendon on the underside.
He muttered something and his hips jerked under her arms, half lifting her.
She wanted to tell him to never go back to St. Giles. That she’d find Roger’s killer herself. That she couldn’t bear anymore to see him hurt. But she’d already told him that before and it hadn’t changed his mind. She couldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t allow her that far in.
But he would allow this.
She mouthed around the thick head of his cock, tasting the tang of his skin. She pulled back to stare at him as he’d stared at her once. The tiny slit at the top of his penis was leaking, and she drew her thumb through the clear liquid, smearing it about the soft skin.
The strong length in her hands jumped.
She smiled when she felt that and leaned down to kiss the very tip, the warm wetness smearing across her lips. She looked up and saw that the color was high across his cheekbones and his eyelids half shielded his glittering gray eyes. Still watching, she took the head of his cock into her mouth and suckled.
His nostrils flared and he bit his lip, but he did no more, staring back at her as she opened her mouth and licked slowly around the head. Later she would be embarrassed by her boldness.
Right now she reveled in the freedom he gave her.
But when she lightly scraped her teeth around the rim, he moved.
“Megs,” he growled, and reached for her.
She didn’t like that—she wasn’t done playing. She half rose and scrambled backward, trying to dodge his hands, her anger rising again.
“Damn it, Megs!”
He lunged and she reacted instinctively, a thrill of alarm shooting through her. She got to her feet and made two abortive strides.
It wasn’t fair of her—he was wounded. She should’ve been able to get away.
He slammed her against the bed, using his greater weight and height to hold her there.
She was wedged between him and the bed, panting, though their struggle had only been a matter of seconds. He was behind her, his body pressed against her back, his erection imprinted on her buttocks, his arms braced on either side of her.
She could feel his breath puffing against her ear. She waited, expecting him to turn her around to face him.
Instead he began gathering her wrapper and chemise.
She caught her breath.
He whispered a kiss behind her ear. “Hold still.”
Her bottom was bare now, her skin cooling in the air, and she felt the hot slide of his cock across her hip.
He placed his hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her gently but firmly down, until her upper half lay across the bed and her lower half was canted up, waiting for his pleasure.
She felt him nudge her legs apart, and then his palm was on her hip and she felt it: the nudge of his cock against her entrance. He seemed somehow larger in this position and she heard him grunt as he began squeezing his way in. She was wet, but she felt each ridge of his penis as he pushed himself slowly into her.
Her hands clutched at the bedclothes.
He seemed to take forever, widening her, burrowing into her swollen tissues. Then he made a final shove and she felt the fabric of his leggings brush firmly against her bottom.
He held himself there and she could hear the sound of his rough breathing in the quiet of the room. She bit her lip, mirroring his earlier grimace. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath—and he hadn’t even started to move.
And then he did, a slick, hard slide that rubbed against something wonderful inside of her. She couldn’t help the squeaking cry she gave, and as if her hips moved of their own accord, she began bumping back against him.
He huffed a rough laugh. “So impatient.”
She turned her head to scowl at him—or at least she meant to, but he chose that moment to reverse his glide, thrusting back into her.
Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Oh.”
“You like that?” he whispered.
She nodded, unable to speak. He was embedding himself into her over and over, his cock rubbing against her deliciously, and she couldn’t help but tilt her bottom up in submissive invitation. She burrowed one hand underneath and found her nub as he filled her again and again, his hardness sliding against her wet fingers.
His breath caught and he swiveled his hips, grinding against her, leaning close over her, whispering low in her ear. “You’re touching yourself, aren’t you?”
She swallowed, closing her eyes in bliss. “Y-yes.”
“God,” he muttered, and she wondered if he’d finally lost the power of speech.
Perhaps he had, for he suddenly planted one hand over her shoulder and shoved hard into her, pressing her into the mattress. He was pushing her body up the bed with quick, forceful jabs that spread her apart, made her see a starburst behind her closed lids.
A spike of near-painful pleasure bloomed between her legs, flowing and expanding through her, a river of sweet completion. She moaned, loud and low.
He stiffened behind her, his hips still working, even as his hot seed filled her, as if he didn’t want to stop. And then he fell against her, his heat surrounding and cradling her. She felt his chest pressing into her back as he fought to catch his breath.
She should feel squashed beneath him, but instead she felt protected and oddly cherished.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as he moved his right arm—the one with the white bandage—and twined his fingers with hers, squeezing gently.
Were it up to her, they would stay this way forever.