chapter Seven
The horrible imps Despair, Grief, and Loss tried to push Faith off, but she was stronger than she looked and held on firmly.
The Hellequin didn’t turn to look at her, but she could feel the muscles of his shoulders flex and relax as they rode.
“What is your intention?” he rasped.
“I shall cling to you until I can persuade you to free my beloved’s soul,” Faith said bravely.
The Hellequin merely nodded. “Prepare yourself, then, to cross the River of Sorrow.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Only a fool lets his guard down in St. Giles.
The words rang in Godric’s head, spoken in the ghostly voice of his dead mentor, Sir Stanley Gilpin. Sir Stanley would’ve called him a damned idiot if he could see Godric now, the hilt of his wife’s puny knife sticking out of his back.
“Godric!”
He blinked, focusing on Megs’s face. She’d gone pale, her eyes wide and stricken, the moment he’d whispered her name. Of course that might change as soon as she remembered that she believed he’d killed her lover.
The clatter of hoofbeats sounded nearby.
Godric reached over his shoulder and was just able to grasp the knife.
“Dear God, I’ve killed you.” Actual tears stood in Megs’s eyes.
Godric wished he’d time to admire them.
“Not quite.” And he pulled the knife free with a dizzying wash of pain and a spurt of fresh hot blood. He shoved the thing into his boot and took Megs’s elbow. “Come.”
Nobody could afford horses in St. Giles. Hoofbeats meant only one thing.
“But your back,” Megs wailed. “You should lie down. I’ll get Oliver and Tom—”
“Quickly, sweeting,” he said, and turned toward her carriage even as he pulled the mask and hat off. In the near dark, perhaps her coachman and footman wouldn’t notice the pattern of his tunic. Or the fact that he was wearing a half-cape and jackboots.
Never mind. There were worse things to fear at the moment than her servants discovering his secret.
Fortunately she came freely enough. Godric wasn’t sure if he were up to dragging a struggling Megs into the carriage at the moment. She was surprisingly vehement when she fought.
Tom craned around to watch when they entered the carriage but made no comment when Godric curtly ordered, “Home. Fast as you can.”
He thrust Megs down onto a seat even as the carriage started forward. Fortunately she had a hidden compartment under the seats—he’d thought as much since that first night when she’d produced those pistols. He shoved up the empty seat and threw in his swords, cape, hat, and mask. Then he shut the seat and sat rather abruptly, possibly because the carriage was swinging around a corner.
Shouts from without.
Megs was suddenly beside him. “You’re still bleeding. I can see the wet shining against your tunic.”
He didn’t say anything, simply drawing the tunic off his head. Underneath he wore a simple white shirt. “Come here.” They were running out of time.
She seemed to realize suddenly that there was more to his urgency than his trifling wound. “What is it?”
“We’re about to be stopped by the dragoons,” he said grimly as he pulled her into his lap, parting her legs beneath her skirts so that she straddled him. “If they discover I’m the Ghost, we’re both ruined. Do you understand?”
She was both brave and intelligent, his wife. Her eyes widened, but she merely nodded once.
The carriage was already slowing, with the soldiers’ horses right outside the window. They could hear the shouts of the men, the answering voice of their coachman.
“Good,” he said. “Follow my lead.”
He took the little knife from his boot and slit the front of her bodice open, cutting through stays and chemise as well. Any other woman would’ve screamed—the dress was silk, an expensive, frivolous thing—but Megs merely watched him with startled brown eyes.
He pulled the edges widely apart and the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen popped into view, round and full with dark rose nipples. Had it just been his life, he might’ve taken the time to look his fill. But it was her life as well—or at least her reputation. If he were hanged as a murderer, she’d be shunned by all but her family.
He pulled her close and bent his head as hands scrabbled at the carriage door. Then his mouth was full of her sweet nipple and he suckled strongly, as the heady scent of woman and orange blossoms swirled about his head. He could see her pulse beating at her tender throat like a fluttering bird. Damn it, if his mouth hadn’t been full, he might’ve chuckled.
He was as hard as a rock.
The door to the carriage was yanked open.
He felt her jerk, her strong young back arching in his hands, and she brushed her fingers through his cropped hair.
“What—” The voice was loud and commanding. The voice of a dragoon captain.
Godric raised his head, eyes narrowed in anger as he pulled her into his chest, shielding her nudity. Megs made a distressed, embarrassed sound and hid her face in his shoulder.
And just like that, his anger became real.
“What in God’s name is the meaning of this?” he growled.
He doubted very much that Captain Trevillion was used to blushing, but damned if the man’s cheeks didn’t darken. “I … uh … I am Captain James Trevillion of the 4th Dragoons. I’m charged with capturing the Ghost of St. Giles. One of my men thought he saw the Ghost enter this carriage. If you—”
“I don’t care if you’re charged with capturing the Pretender himself,” Godric whispered. “Get out of my carriage before I carve your eyes out and use—”
But Trevillion was already muttering an apology as he withdrew. The carriage door slammed.
Megs straightened.
“Wait,” Godric murmured, stilling her with a hand on her soft, bare back.
Trevillion might be red-faced, but the man was nothing if not canny.
Only when the carriage started forward did he let Megs slip from his lap.
“That was clever,” she whispered. “How is your back?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, equally low. No one could hear them over the carriage wheels, yet somehow it felt right to whisper. His eyes dropped to her gaping bodice. One nipple was reddened and still moist. He averted his eyes, swallowing. His erection, silly thing, didn’t know the show was over. “I’m sorry about your dress.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she retorted, though he thought her cheeks had pinkened. Had she arched into his mouth of her own excitement … or because she was playacting? “Let me see your back.”
He sighed and leaned forward, wincing. In the little time that he’d been sitting with his back pressed against the squabs, the blood had begun to dry. Movement reopened the wound, for he could feel the hot wash down his back.
She drew a sharp breath. “Your entire back is wet with blood.”
Her voice was trembling.
“It’s a small wound,” he said soothingly. “Blood is often more dramatic, I’ve found, than the injury that produces it.”
That earned him an odd look, equal parts worry, doubt, and curiosity.
Then she reached around his back, pressing something on the wound, making the pain flare. The movement pushed her breasts into his arm and for a moment he closed his eyes.
“Godric,” she whispered urgently. “Godric!”
He opened his eyes to find her face only inches from his, and he had a mad urge to pull her back into his lap and make her arch under his mouth again.
He blinked and the carriage seemed to dip and sway.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Megs was muttering in a distressed tone as she fumbled with his back. Whatever she was doing didn’t seem to be stopping the bleeding. “We’ll need a doctor. I can send for one as soon as we reach home.”
“No doctor.” He was shaking his head but had to stop when nausea closed his throat. “Moulder.”
“What?” She glanced at him distractedly, her eyes dipping to his lips and back up again. “If I’d known the Ghost was you, I’d never have stabbed you.”
“Sometimes he’s not,” Godric said, and could tell by her confused expression that she didn’t understand him. His words were slurring, but he had a sudden intense urge to make her understand one thing. “I didn’t kill Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
Her gaze slipped from his as she examined his back again. “I didn’t think—”
He grasped her arm, making her turn. Her hair was mostly down, a wild, magnificent cloud of black curling locks framing the white skin of her wonderful breasts. If he died tonight, he’d give thanks that he’d seen her like this before he entered Hell.
“I was at d’Arque’s ball,” he gasped. “That night. I—”
She’d fallen before him at the news of Fraser-Burnsby’s death—her lover’s death, though Godric hadn’t known that at the time. Godric had barely managed to catch her before her head would’ve hit the marble floor. He’d carried her limp form to a secluded room and there left her to the care of Isabel Beckinhall.
He blinked, focusing on her face, which was too flushed, her eyes too bright. “I wasn’t in St. Giles.”
“I know.” She touched his cheek with one finger, apparently oblivious that her hand was covered in his blood. “I know.”
GODRIC’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED and for a moment she thought he’d passed out.
“Godric!” Megs’s heart skipped as his head sagged to the side.
But then, as if with a supreme effort of will, he straightened again, his gray eyes clear and piercing as he stared at her, even though his face had gone pasty white. “Do you trust your coachman? Your footman?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said at once, and then realized: his very life might depend upon the discretion of Oliver and Tom. She swallowed and thought about it, but in the end said sincerely, “They both have always been loyal. All my servants are.”
“Good. When the carriage stops, please send Oliver in to get Moulder. He’ll know what to do.” A thin white line incised itself around his mouth as he pressed his lips together. He must be in terrible pain.
“How many times have you done this before?” she whispered.
He shook his head slightly. “Enough to know this wound isn’t fatal.”
She stared at him, appalled. Only days before, she’d thought him a doddering old man. And now … even wounded, the breadth of his shoulders strained the white shirt he wore, his hands were elegant and strong, and his face hard and intelligent. He fairly vibrated with vitality.
How had his pretended senility ever deceived her?
She shivered. She was still all but bare to the waist because he’d cut the dress from her torso and bent his head to fasten those ridiculously sensuous lips onto her breast. The shock of it, after violence and, yes, sexual excitement, had nearly made her forget their danger. When the dragoon captain had opened the carriage door, she’d squeaked with real surprise.
Megs shook her head. She’d have to examine these troubling feelings later. Right now they were nearing Saint House. She scrabbled for the edges of what remained of her bodice, pulling it over herself as best she could and then buttoning her half-cape all the way to her neck. If no one looked too closely, she could make it to her room without embarrassment.
The carriage shuddered to a stop and she remembered his directions. Quickly, she opened the door a crack and ordered Oliver to fetch Moulder. Lord knew what the footman and Tom thought of tonight’s events. They must’ve caught glimpses of Godric’s costume as he’d entered the carriage, and if that hadn’t been enough, the dragoon captain had shouted his suspicions.
Yet Godric hadn’t been arrested.
Megs vowed to talk to both men and thank them for their discretion.
The carriage door opened again as Moulder said, “Got yourself into a fix again, have you? Told you that …” The servant’s eyes widened, his words trailing away as he caught sight of Megs. “M’lady?”
“I have a knife wound in my back,” Godric said calmly, even though his hands were trembling.
Moulder blinked and turned his attention to his master. “Best get you inside, then, hadn’t we?”
“Yes, and discreetly.” Godric looked at his servant and some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them.
“O’ course.” Moulder produced an old cape and threw it around Godric’s shoulders, effectively hiding the Ghost’s costume. In a louder voice he said, “Had a few too many, have we, sir?”
Godric rolled his eyes as Moulder wrapped his arms around his middle to help him descend the carriage. “Hate this particular subterfuge. Makes me look such an idiot.”
“Only an idiot would let himself get stabbed in the back by some footpad,” Moulder said far lower. He grunted as they made the cobblestones, and Godric staggered.
“Wasn’t a footpad,” Godric gasped.
“Oh? Then who?”
The two of them were weaving as if Godric really were intoxicated. Megs hastily got down from the carriage and ran to Godric’s other side, taking his arm over her shoulder. “It was I.”
Moulder’s eyes widened at her for the second time that night. “Is that right? Would’ve liked to’ve seen that, I would.”
“Bloodthirsty bastard,” Godric hissed as they made the front door.
“I’m not proud of it,” Megs whispered miserably.
Godric halted, swiveling his face to look at her, his gray eyes like crystals. “Not your fault.”
Moulder muttered something under his breath and they all paused for a moment on the landing. Godric’s arm was like a lead weight across Megs’s shoulders, and she would probably be sore on the morrow, but that wasn’t what worried her. She could feel Godric trembling against her and, even more distressing, the seep of something wet against the side pressed to his.
He was still bleeding.
“Come on,” she urged gently. “We’ll rest once we get you to your room.”
For a second, her gaze caught Moulder’s and she knew they shared the same concern. If Godric collapsed on the stairs, they’d have to get the footmen to carry him up. The fewer servants who knew of this matter, the better.
As if Megs’s thought had summoned her, Mrs. Crumb appeared at the bottom of the stairway. “May I be of assistance?”
Megs turned her head to look at the housekeeper. It must be well into the early hours of the morning, but Mrs. Crumb wore her starched black dress, the white apron and cap as crisp as ever, and she gazed up at them as calmly as if inquiring if they’d like tea served in the small sitting room.
“Hot water,” Moulder said before Megs could gather her wits, and his next words confirmed her suspicion that he was quite used to emergencies of this nature. “A stack of clean cloths and the brandy from Mr. St. John’s study, if you please, Mrs. Crumb.”
Megs held her breath, waiting for the housekeeper’s outrage. To be ordered about in front of their employers was a clear breach of servant etiquette.
But Mrs. Crumb merely paused a moment before saying, “At once, Mr. Moulder.”
Her expression was as serene as ever as she turned to do the butler’s orders.
Megs glanced at Moulder.
He looked nearly as surprised as she. “I’m beginning to almost like that woman.”
The rest of their progress up the stairs was slow but uneventful. Strange that she’d spent years hating the Ghost, wishing only for his death—and now she wished just as much to get him safely to his bed. Megs bit her lip. In the morning she knew she would begin again, somehow start the search for Roger’s murderer, but right now all she wanted was for Godric to be well.
When they finally made it to Godric’s room, he was panting, a sheen of sweat lighting his pale brow. Megs watched as Moulder helped Godric sit on a wooden chair; then he disappeared into the dressing room. Godric plucked at his blood-streaked shirt and she roused herself, quickly crossing to the chair where he sat.
“Here, let me help,” she murmured, unbuttoning the shirt.
It had stuck to his back and she knew it would hurt terribly when removed. She concentrated on her trembling fingers, unable to meet his eyes, his warm breath ruffling her hair.
“Megs,” he whispered, and she realized dimly that he was finally using her nickname.
Tears suddenly blurred her vision. “I’m so, so sorry.” She felt him raise a hand as if to touch her cheek.
“Here we are, then,” Moulder said far too cheerfully as he returned with a small wooden box.
At the same time a tap came at the door.
Megs hurried to it, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
Outside, the ever-efficient Mrs. Crumb had a pile of neatly folded snowy white cloths, a bottle of brandy, and a steaming kettle.
“Oh, thank you,” Megs said, taking the items from the housekeeper.
“Is there anything else you need, my lady?” Mrs. Crumb asked.
“No, that will be all.” Megs bit her lip. “I’d appreciate it if anything you saw tonight were not discussed in the servants’ quarters.”
Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow arched imperceptibly. “Naturally, my lady,” she said before curtsying and turning away.
Oh, dear. She’d obviously just insulted her wonderful new housekeeper. Megs sighed as she closed the door behind her. She’d have to somehow make it up to Mrs. Crumb in the morning.
When she turned, she saw that Moulder already had Godric’s shirt off. Her husband had turned to straddle the chair, his back bared for Moulder, who was washing the blood from the wound in rather brisk movements.
Megs started forward, but her footsteps slowed as she neared the tableau. Godric’s back … it wasn’t anything like a middle-aged man—or at least what she thought a middle-aged man’s back should look like. She blinked, feeling muddled. He’d laid his bare arms across the back of the chair, making his muscles bunch along his upper arms and shoulders. Strong, working muscles, the kind used to swing an ax—or a sword. A thin silver chain caught the light at the back of his neck as he bent his head. His spine was graceful in a particularly masculine way, indented and taut, leading down to a narrow waist and buttocks outlined by his tight leggings.
Good God. Megs forced herself to look away as she set the cloths, brandy, and kettle on a table. She felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t piece together the Godric she’d thought she knew and the living, breathing man before her.
It was too much.
Godric half turned his head, presenting his strong nose, lips, and jaw in profile, as if he sensed her confusion. “Moulder will take care of this. I’m sure you’re tired.”
“But”—she gestured helplessly—“I’d like to help.”
“No need, m’lady.” Moulder turned to open the wooden box, revealing several sharp knives, scissors, needles, and thread. He took out a needle and examined the thread already on it. “’Tis a messy business you’ll not like.”
Well of course she wouldn’t like seeing Godric sewn up, but she felt—she wanted—to stay and … and just comfort him.
“Megs,” Godric said, his tone commanding. “Please. Go to bed.”
He didn’t say it, but she could tell: She was in the way. He didn’t need her comfort.
“Very well, then,” she said, trying to sound practical. “Good night.”
And she made her feet cross to the door and enter her own room.
GODRIC CAME AWAKE slowly the next morning to the persistent ache of his back. For a moment he lay with his eyes closed, remembering the fading wisps of a dream about sunshine and a blooming tree. Megs had been sitting in the tree, her salmon-colored skirts bunched about her. She’d leaned down toward him, laughing, and her bodice had parted, spilling her sweet, round titties into his face. Godric realized both that he was no longer dreaming and that he’d woken with a stiff cock.
And that someone was in his room.
No. That Megs was in his room.
He lay there, trying to reason logically how he simply knew that it was Megs. But in the end he had to give up the effort without result. It seemed that the part of himself that recognized his wife’s presence wasn’t accessible from his intellect.
He opened his eyes and rolled to his back.
Or started to. The immediate stab of pain brought the events of last night flooding back. Sweet Megs with the bountiful breasts had stabbed him and she knew he was the Ghost of St. Giles. His life had just become a great deal more complicated.
Megs stood, clad in a fresh apple green and pink frock, puttering about near his dresser. He watched as she placed the pitcher in the washbasin, then picked up the small dish that he used for spare coins and turned it over, staring at the bottom. She wandered to the mantelpiece and, apparently without thinking, set the dish down on the corner where the slightest nudge would send it crashing to the tiles below.
He must’ve made some sound.
She turned, her face brightening. “You’re awake.”
He sat up, repressing a wince of pain. “It would seem so.”
“Oh.” She trailed her fingertips along the mantel, frowning at the jar of spills that stood at the opposite end from the dish. She plucked out a spill, twisting it between her fingers. “Are you better? You certainly look better. You were as white as a … well, a ghost last night.”
He swallowed. “Megs …”
She tossed the spill onto the mantel and turned to face him, her shoulders square, her chin level. It was the exact same stance she’d taken that first night when she’d shot at him. “Griffin told me last night that he forced you to marry me.”
That wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear from her. He cocked his head, considering her as he replied cautiously, “Yes, he did.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. He should’ve never done that.”
“Shouldn’t he have?” he asked, his voice sharp. “He’s your brother, Megs, and you were in dire straits. I may not’ve particularly liked being blackmailed by Griffin, but I’ve never questioned his reasons for doing it.”
“Oh.” She scowled down at the toes of her slippers as if they’d somehow offended her. “But even understanding the whole mess, you must hate me anyway.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His tone and words were more irritable than he wanted them to be, but his back was throbbing. “You know I’d never blame you for—”
“Do I?” She threw her head back, her dark eyes shining, her hair already beginning to struggle out of its confines as she started pacing in front of his fireplace. “Until yesterday evening I thought I knew you. I thought you were a staid, elderly scholar who lived by himself in a much too dusty mansion and once in a while for a bit of excitement went out to coffeehouses. And then”—she spun at the far end of the room, waving her hands as if battling birds were attacking her head—“and then I find that you’re a notorious madman who runs about in a ridiculous mask and gets into fights with footpads in St. Giles, and, Godric, I really, truly don’t think I know you at all now.”
She stopped dead and glared at him, her breast heaving. Dear God, she was magnificent when she was in a rage.
He cleared his throat. “Elderly?”
“Elderly?” She mimicked him in a horribly high voice, which he privately thought was a bit unfair—he didn’t sound at all like that. “That’s all you can say? I saw you kill that footpad the first night I was in London.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How many?”
“What?”
Her lower lip was trembling, the sight much more troubling to him than her anger. Megs in a rage was wonderful. Megs fearful wasn’t something he ever wanted to see. “How many have you killed, Godric?”
He looked away from that vulnerable mouth. “I don’t know.”
“How”—she stopped and inhaled, steadying her voice—“how can you not know how many people you’ve killed, Godric?”
He wasn’t a coward, so he lifted his head and met her gaze, silently letting her see the answer in his eyes.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “But they were all bad, weren’t they?” She couldn’t hide the uncertainty in her voice. She was trying to persuade herself—and failing. “All … all the people you killed, they were like the footpad—you saved others by killing them.”
He could see in her eyes the desire to believe that he wasn’t entirely a monster. So he made it easy for her, though he knew there was no clear line in St. Giles. No true black and white. Yes, there were murderers and thieves, those who preyed upon the weaker … but those same murderers and thieves often sought to feed themselves or others.
One never knew.
Not that that had ever stopped him.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve only ever killed those who I caught attacking the weak and vulnerable.”
There was glad relief in her eyes, which was as it should be. Megs was a creature of light and joy. She had no business contemplating the darkness that he fought night after night in St. Giles.
“I’m so glad.” She frowned for a moment, absently taking a dozen spills from the jar and stacking them messily on the mantel, but then she seemed to remember something and turned back to him, a few spills still in her hand. “That was what Griffin was blackmailing you over, wasn’t it? He knew that you were the Ghost.”
Godric’s mouth twisted. “Yes.”
“I see.” She nodded to herself rather thoughtfully and tossed the remaining spills onto the chair before the fire. Several slid off to land on the small rug underneath. “Well, I’m glad I found out, truly. I think a wife, even one so strangely married as I, should know her husband’s past, and now that it’s behind you—behind us, rather—I think—”
“Megs,” he whispered, in dawning horror.
But she didn’t seem to hear. “We’ll muddle on much better in the future. I can learn who you truly are and you …” She trailed off as she seemed to at last realize that something was wrong. “What is it?”
“I don’t intend to give up being the Ghost of St. Giles.”
She stared at him. “But … you must.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because”—she threw wide her hands, nearly knocking the dish from its perch on the mantel—“it’s dangerous and … and you killed people. You just must stop.”
He sighed, watching her. He could tell her about the widow he’d saved from rape last month, the robbers he’d chased away from an elderly flower seller a week later, the orphaned girls he’d rescued on the night he’d saved Megs herself. He could tell her horror stories and brag about bravado, but in the end it hardly mattered. He knew, deep inside his crippled soul, that even if he’d never save another life, his answer would still be the same.
“No, I won’t stop.”
Her eyes widened and for a moment he almost thought it was in betrayal.
Then she tilted her chin up and glared at him, her eyes blazing. “Very well. I suppose that is your choice after all.”
He knew that she wasn’t done, that whatever she said next he truly would not like.
Still it was a blow, a hit delivered directly to the belly, when she said, “Just as it is my choice to find Roger’s murderer … and kill him.”