chapter Nineteen
Faith yawned. “I’m so sleepy. Can we not rest for a bit?” The Hellequin dismounted the big black horse readily enough and lifted Faith off. She lay down in the dust of the Plain of Madness and wrapped the Hellequin’s cloak about her. Yet still she shivered. Holding out a hand, she said to the Hellequin, “Will you not lie with me?” So he lay beside her and curved his big body around hers and as she drifted into slumber, she heard him say, “I have not slept the sleep of men for a millennium.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Megs froze. Lord Kershaw had been laughing at something, his round face thrown back to the sun’s rays, his mouth wide, his eyes squinting with laughter. It felt like a knife wound to the soul. Roger had once laughed so uninhibitedly.
Had once walked in the sunlight.
“How dare you,” she said low, without any forethought, but she wouldn’t have been able to remain silent and still breathe. “How dare you?”
“Megs,” Godric said beside her. His entire body had tightened as if preparing for battle, but his voice was soft, almost sad.
She couldn’t look at him, not now. All she could see was Lord Kershaw’s dying laugh, the way his eyes narrowed with calculation, the stare he pinned on her.
“You killed him,” she said, the words righteous on her tongue. “You killed Roger Fraser-Burnsby. He was your friend and you murdered him.”
Had he denied her accusation, had he blustered and flushed, backed away, shouted that she was insane, done any of those normal, conventional things, she might’ve rethought her taunt. Might’ve come to her senses and pleaded sun poisoning or too much drink or merely the stupidity of her feminine sex.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Lord Kershaw leaned forward, his thick lips curving into a sweet smile, and said, “Prove it.”
She went wild, she knew it in retrospect, but all she felt in the moment was the hot burn of grief flooding her veins, like acid in the blood. She surged at him, arms outstretched, fingers scrabbling, and only Godric’s hard hands saved her from disgrace. He picked her up physically, carrying her even as she bucked and sobbed. Her family was around her now and she saw Sarah’s wide eyes, the muted horror on Mrs. St. John’s face, and she knew she should feel shame, but all she felt was sorrow.
Drowning, overwhelming sorrow.
She spent the carriage ride home burrowed into Godric’s shoulder, trying to inhale his familiar scent, trying to remember all that she had rather than all she had lost.
When they reached Saint House, Godric climbed out of the carriage and then turned around and helped her down, as solicitous as if she were an invalid. She murmured a protest, but he didn’t reply, simply tightening his arms about her as he led her in.
Megs heard Mrs. Crumb ask something as they passed her in the hallway and was glad when Sarah stopped to murmur to her. Godric hadn’t even hesitated. He mounted the stairs, keeping his right arm around her shoulders, and it was only when they made the upper floor that she remembered his wrist.
She looked anxiously up at him. “Dear Lord, Godric, I must’ve hurt your wrist when we were in the garden—”
“No,” he murmured as he led her into his bedroom. “Hush. It’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
A hot flush rose in her chest, sweeping over her neck and face, and then she was weeping, the tears scalding. There was no relief in these tears, though, no relief while Lord Kershaw lived.
She must’ve said something as she sobbed—or perhaps Godric knew instinctively what she felt.
He wrapped her in his arms as he gently let down her hair, and it wasn’t until her heaving breaths began to quiet that she heard what he was saying.
“He won’t get away, Meggie mine, I won’t let him. I promise on my soul that I’ll take him down. I promise, Meggie, I promise.”
His repetition soothed her hurt a little. Megs laid her cheek against his shoulder, limply letting him do as he wanted. He was drawing off her dress, unlacing her stays, freeing her from her clothing. When she was in only her chemise, he laid her gently on his bed and crossed to his dresser. She heard the splash of water and then he was back by her, a cool cloth pressed to her swollen cheeks.
It felt like a benediction, the touch of unconditional forgiveness, and she whispered without thinking. “I loved him.”
“I know,” he murmured in reply. “I know.”
She closed her eyes, her fingers pressing against her stomach, flattened because she was lying down. There was no sign, no manifestation of the baby, but she believed on faith alone.
“I can’t begin again,” she whispered, “not when he hasn’t been avenged. I can’t have this baby with this undone, and I can’t leave London.”
She opened her eyes to see that his eyes had widened and were fixed upon her hands where they lay kneading her stomach. Slowly, his gaze rose to hers, and it burned, but she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.
She hadn’t meant to tell him like this, but she couldn’t order her brain.
“I can’t leave London now,” she repeated.
“No,” he agreed. “Not now. Not yet.”
He got up and went to the dresser and she closed her eyes, drifting.
She felt the dip of the bed when he returned. The cloth was placed on her forehead and she murmured with pleasure. It felt so good, so right.
“Sleep now,” he said, and she could tell by his voice that he meant to leave her.
Her eyes popped open. “Stay with me.”
He looked away, his mouth tense. “I have business to attend to.”
What business? she wondered, but only said aloud, “Please.”
He didn’t answer, simply toed off his shoes and removed his coat. He took off his wig and laid it on his dresser, and then he lay down beside her and drew her into his arms.
She lay there, drifting, listening to his deep breaths. He’d not berated her for her outburst in the garden. Anyone else would’ve been ashamed of her—certainly disapproving. Yet Godric had treated her tenderly even when she’d fought him to get to the Earl of Kershaw. She didn’t deserve a man so patient, so good. She turned on her side, watching his profile as he lay on his back next to her. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. What was he thinking? What did he plan to do? Perhaps it didn’t matter right now. He’d agreed that she didn’t have to leave London right away, and for that she was grateful. She wanted to stay for Roger—but more importantly she wanted to stay for Godric.
Godric.
His nose was straight in profile and rather elegant, which was a funny thing to think about a man’s nose, but it was. The nostrils were slim and well defined, the bridge of his nose shadowed on either side. His mouth, too, had always been beautiful, his lips lighter than the surrounding skin, almost soft-looking. She raised a hand and touched. Lightly, tracing, feeling the slight scrape of his beard on one side, the smooth softness on the other.
His lips parted. “Megs.”
His voice, too, had always enthralled her. So gruff and low, sounding as if he’d spent the day shouting angrily at someone.
Except he wasn’t an angry man, not really, and certainly not with her.
He rolled toward her so that they were face-to-face. “You should sleep, Meggie mine.”
“But I’m not sleepy.”
He watched her, his gray eyes weary, saying nothing, simply waiting to see what she wished. It grieved her, what this strong, good man would do for her, and it made her uneasy too.
She fit her lips to his and whispered, “Make love to me, please.”
And he complied as he had with every other thing she’d asked of him.
He ran his long, graceful fingers into her hair and grasped the back of her head, holding her, embracing her, making her feel cherished.
His tongue licked into her mouth, gently probing, gently tracing her teeth and the roof of her mouth. She caught his tongue and suckled, pressing her palm against his chest so she could feel his heat, the steadfast beat of his heart. His mouth opened against hers, slanting, nibbling at the corner of her lips. He slid over her cheek to her temple, kissing her tenderly there.
“Godric,” she whispered, her voice catching.
There was something he intended to do, something involving Lord Kershaw, and she thought she should find out what it was, make him confess his secrets.
But then he caught the skirts of her chemise and flung it up over her hip and she forgot. He kissed her on the mouth and drew back, watching her as he took her upper leg and drew it over his own, opening her. His hand dropped again, and she felt as he delved between her thighs, gently stroking.
Her eyelids drooped, and her hand rose to his jaw, bringing him closer so she could kiss him again as his knuckle brushed against her *oris. He pressed there, and she arched her hips into his hand, wanting more, until he withdrew his hand. She moaned in protest, hearing his breathless hush in reply, and then she felt his bare cock against her thigh.
She opened her eyes, staring into his.
“Come closer,” he whispered.
She did, inching close, so close that her hips were against his and she felt him at her entrance.
He moved slowly, pressing inside, widening her, making his own place for himself in her body. She watched his face as he breached her. His eyebrows were slightly knit, his mouth curved down. There was something in his dark eyes, a kind of sorrowful well, and she leaned forward to kiss him again.
Then he was as far inside her as he could go. He rocked against her, the movement gentle but strong. She tightened her leg against his still-clad buttocks, rocking with him, and they moved together like a rolling wave.
He gasped a little, his mouth against hers, and she bit down on his lip, opening her eyes lazily, lost in bliss.
Tears stood in his eyes.
She drew back, growing still, shocked. But he blinked and hitched her leg higher, pressing his thumb just above the place where they were joined. And she forgot, leaning into him, wanting this to last a lifetime, this slow movement, this gradual swelling.
He shifted a little higher and she gasped. With every slow grind, he was drawing across that sensitive point, lighting sparks within her.
He kissed her again, his mouth almost wild in contrast to the movement of his hips. It was building now, that savage feeling, and she was making tiny noises in her throat. Noises she couldn’t control. He splayed his hand against her cheek, his thumb between her lips. She licked his thumb and he thrust hard against her.
She clutched at him, so close, almost there, and then his hand was stroking, pressing, and the sparks burst into flames behind her eyes. She cried out, arching her neck, nearly breaking their kiss, but he followed her, hungrily feeding on her mouth.
He thrust one last time, powerfully, and she felt the flood of his semen within her.
There was something … something she wanted to know. Something she should ask of him, but her limbs were liquid soft, warm and languid, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
She felt the brush of his lips against her brow and the whisper of three words, but she was already so close to sleep it might’ve been a dream.
GODRIC WAITED UNTIL Megs’s breathing became deep and even, and then he waited longer. Much longer than he should’ve, but then she’d become his weakness. His Achilles’ heel, the one person who had reached deep down inside him and grasped his heart, squeezing until it started beating again.
She’d brought him back to life.
And in return it was only fair that he gift her with a death.
By the time he finally moved, it was after dusk, which was just as well since it was his element. He huffed out a breath, nearly but not quite a laugh. Godric St. John: Lord of Darkness. He looked down at her as he eased from the bed. Why such a creature of light and love and life should have come to him, he could not fathom. But he was grateful.
Very grateful.
He wanted to kiss her one last time, to impress her beauty upon his mind and carry it with him on whatever journey this night brought him, but he feared to wake her.
In the end, he simply left his bedroom without touching her again.
He called Moulder and dressed swiftly in his Ghost costume, answering the manservant’s questions curtly. He took both swords because he would need them, and further injury would be a moot point after tonight anyway. And then he stole into his element.
The darkness.
The night was chill, but not overly so, the hint of spring’s awakening whispering on the soft breeze. Overhead, the moon veiled herself seductively with wispy clouds. Godric looked carefully but caught no sight of anyone lurking. Perhaps Captain Trevillion had finally conceded the need for sleep.
He loped west, toward the more fashionable parts of London where the aristocracy built their new houses. Toward the Earl of Kershaw’s house.
He’d made his promise to Megs and he intended to keep it. Had he the time, he might’ve researched his enemy, found his weaknesses and flaws and brought him down more subtly. But that plan had changed perforce with the scene in the garden. Kershaw was a threat to Megs now. He’d not missed the look of hatred the other man had shot his Meggie when she’d lunged at him. She wouldn’t be quiet, wouldn’t do the safe thing and leave him alone. A man such as Kershaw didn’t leave such potential dangers living. Fraser-Burnsby was an obvious example.
Godric shuddered and stopped at a corner, leaning into the rough brick building over a chandler’s shop. The mere thought of Megs in danger, of Kershaw somehow finding a way to hurt her, made crimson flood his vision. He would not—could not—let the other man live while he was a threat to Megs and their child.
That thought—that she was carrying his babe—steadied him enough to start off again. It was a strange but not unwelcome feeling to know that she carried his child. That someday she would hold a babe against her pretty white breast and that the child would be part of him as well.
For the first time in a very long while, he yearned to see tomorrow. Tomorrow and the day after that and the year after that. There was a possibility that with Megs he might have a life to look forward to. And because of that, tonight he was going to hunt down a man and assassinate him in cold blood. This act would damn his very soul, but for Megs it was worth it.
For his Meggie he would walk the fires of Hell.
It took another half hour to reach Kershaw’s London town house. It stood in a modern square, white stone town houses on all sides, elegant and reserved. The moon was waning now, coyly hiding behind her cloudy veils. Godric approached Kershaw’s residence cautiously, sliding in and out of the shadows, searching for any sign of movement from the house.
He was surprised when the front door opened.
Godric stilled, half hidden in the shadows by the stairs leading to the front door of a house across the way. He watched as Kershaw appeared on his step. The earl stood there, looking around impatiently, and Godric felt his hands fist. A carriage rolled around the corner and Kershaw got in.
Godric frowned, considering his options. No matter what else happened, he had to kill Kershaw and fast, before the man had a chance to hurt Megs.
He decided to follow the carriage, trailing it as it moved east. The roads in London were narrow and sometimes crowded, even at night, so he hauled himself up the corner of a building, grunting at the twinge from his left wrist, and followed by rooftop. Still Godric lost the carriage twice and had to scramble over sliding tiles to keep up, cursing under his breath until he caught sight of the thing again. He considered the destination of his prey as he panted along. Was Kershaw going to a ball or the theater? If so, Godric would have to cool his heels waiting for the man. On the other hand, such events were often crowded with carriages jockeying to either deposit or pick up their occupants. Perhaps he could catch the man unawares in a crowd. This wouldn’t be a noble duel.
If need be, Godric would stab the earl in the back.
But it soon became apparent that the carriage was making for St. Giles, which meant this certainly wasn’t a social outing. Was the earl scouting new locations for his workshops? Godric shook his head. The man was engorged with hubris if he thought he could simply set up shop again in St. Giles.
Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped outside a dingy building that was all but leaning against its neighbor. There was no sign to indicate a shop, but a single lantern lit the low doorway, almost as if Kershaw had been expected. Godric lowered himself carefully to the ground and paused in the jut of a low wall, watching as a woman emerged from the building. She was tall and bony, and when she turned, the lantern light fell upon her face and he recognized the slattern who’d been at the third workshop. She stood, arms akimbo, and said something to Kershaw, still in the carriage. There was a pause and she threw up her hands, turning as if angered. At that, the carriage door flew open and Kershaw emerged to hit her across the face, nearly knocking her down. She steadied herself, though, and went back into the shop.
There were two footmen on the back of the carriage and they descended as well, spreading out on either side of Kershaw. He’d brought guards. For himself or something—or someone—else?
The door to the crumbling building opened again and the slattern came back out, grasping a little girl in each hand. But they weren’t who the guards were there for. Behind her was a third tough, both hands gripping tightly a much smaller figure in front of him. She was slim and held herself defiantly, but her face was bruised and she’d lost her old hat.
Alf. They had Alf.
If he waited until they got her into the carriage, he might lose the carriage—and both her and the little girls. Alf had said that the lassie snatchers wanted her dead, and he was surprised that she was still alive. He would’ve thought they’d kill her on sight.
There was no other choice.
Godric charged the tableau.
The guard closest to him still had his back to Godric. A quick thrust with his short sword under the man’s ribs dispatched him, though it sent agonizing shards of pain up Godric’s wrist.
“You!” Godric looked up to see Kershaw, face inflamed with rage, shouting at him. “Kill him!”
The earl didn’t wait to see if his orders would be obeyed. He drew his sword as Godric rushed him and brought it up, repelling Godric’s initial thrust. Godric pivoted past him as their swords locked, making sure to keep his back away from Kershaw’s guards.
Faintly he could hear the sounds of horses approaching.
Then Godric concentrated on killing Kershaw. He felt the jar to his shoulder as he pushed against the other man, making him fall back. He jabbed at the earl’s middle, then his head, moving fast, not giving Kershaw time to gather himself to make his own attack. The earl’s eyes were wide, his mouth open and panting, his lips wet. Kershaw feinted to Godric’s left and then kicked viciously at his knee. Godric moved, taking the blow on his outer thigh instead. But the earl had expected him to go down. His thrust had gone past Godric, and for a second Kershaw was overextended, his long sword of no use. Godric brought up his short sword and pressed it into the soft skin just under the earl’s right arm.
Kershaw froze, eyes widening.
A shot rang out.
Godric glanced over his shoulder and met Captain Trevillion’s cold blue eyes. They were surrounded by dragoons on horseback, all of them aiming pistols at his head.
“Hold hard, Ghost.”
MEGS WOKE GASPING in the dark, heart beating hard, breath strangled in her throat, and knew at once that something was wrong. Shreds of her nightmare still lingered, a haunting vision of Godric caught in a black oily pit, slowly being sucked down while she did nothing.
Did nothing while her husband’s mouth and nostrils were covered in obsidian slime, his eyes staring back stoically at her even as he drowned.
Oh, God. She sat up in his big bed, glancing around wildly, even though she knew he wasn’t here. Where was he? She needed to find him, needed to place her hands on his chest and feel for herself that his heart still beat, that he was well.
She rose, hurriedly throwing on his banyan and lighting a candle from the embers still glowing on the hearth.
She looked first in her own room, a quick glance as she hurried past. The next place was the downstairs library. Perhaps he’d woken in the night and been unable to sleep? Perhaps he was even now dozing in a chair before the fireplace, that silly, stupid tasseled hat on his dear, dear head. She sobbed and realized that she’d broken into a near-panicked run.
He wasn’t in the library.
She sagged against the door, pressing the back of her hand to her weeping mouth.
He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here.
She tried his study last because hope died hard and she had to see for herself before she acknowledged what she already knew.
The study was quiet, the door to his hidden closet ajar. She could see that his Ghost costume was gone and she knew, knew what she had done. Megs pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a wail of horror.
She’d abandoned a living man for a dead one.