Lord of Darkness (14 page)

Not that she intended to be waylaid. She wouldn’t go far from the carriage, but she’d been honest with Tom.

She needed a moment alone … with her memories of Roger.

Perhaps it was all the male stubbornness she’d dealt with tonight: Griffin and Godric and even Lord d’Arque in a way—the man had been more interested in flirting with her than wondering why she’d sought him out in the first place. She felt blocked at every turn. Nothing she’d come to London for was working out as she’d hoped.

Especially, in a way,
this
.

She felt farther from Roger than she ever had before—even as she walked the streets where he’d lived his last moments.

She stopped and looked up and down the empty lane. It was darker than most London streets. The St. Giles merchants and residents either couldn’t afford to light their homes, or they didn’t care to. In either case, the area was dim and shadowed, tall buildings leaning ominously overhead. The sound of something breaking and the clatter of footfalls came
from … somewhere. Megs shivered and drew her short cape closer, even though it wasn’t especially cold out tonight. Sound was hard to estimate here. The buildings and small, crooked passageways seemed to echo back whispers and swallow shouts.

This place was haunted by more than Roger’s memory.

Megs turned in a circle. Her carriage was only yards away, a lighted, reassuring presence, but she felt isolated nonetheless.

Why had Roger come here that night?

He didn’t live nearby, hadn’t, as far as she knew, anyone to visit. She had loved him and knew, deep in her heart, that he’d truly loved her in return, but she had no explanation for his last journey.

All she knew, in fact, was that he’d come to St. Giles—and that the Ghost of St. Giles had seen fit to murder him here.

Why? Why Roger of all people?

Megs tried to imagine Roger being held at sword point, deciding to fight back even if mismatched.

She shook her head. Her conjured image was blurry. She couldn’t quite set his features right. When she’d first heard the news of his murder, she’d been sure that he wasn’t the type of man to foolishly provoke a fight with a footpad. Now …

Now she’d lost part of his memory. Lost part of Roger himself. She wasn’t sure she knew who he’d been anymore, and the thought sent panic racing in her chest.

Something moved in the shadows.

She had the pistol grasped in both hands and pointed even before the Ghost of St. Giles stepped from the doorway.

The rage hit
her, hot and quick. How
dare
he? He was sullying ground sacred to her, ground sacred to her memory of Roger.

“You shouldn’t be here, my—”

She fired the pistol … except nothing happened but a sputtering sound and a tiny spark.

Then he was on her, big and hard, wrenching the pistol from her hands and throwing it, clattering, onto the cobblestones, out of reach.

She opened her mouth to shriek her anger, but his hand clamped down on the lower half of her face, his other arm hugging her close, trapping her hands against her sides.

She went insane.
Men!
All telling her what to do, all unable to give her the simple courtesy of treating her like she
mattered
. She writhed, trying to elbow him, trying to stamp on his toes, her dancing slippers sliding harmlessly against his jackboots. She twisted, small sounds of frustration and rage pushing against his damned hand. He grunted and staggered, pulling her with him as he half fell into the shadows against a house wall. She tucked her chin into her neck and slammed the top of her head against him, missing his jaw and connecting painfully with his chest, shaking with fury.

“Damn it—” His growl was low.

He didn’t seem affected at all, this murderer, this killer of all she’d ever held dear. She raised her head and glared at him over the top of his hand, daring him to do what he might.

He met her look and his eyes narrowed behind that stupid mask, and then his hand was moving from her mouth, but before she could draw breath, he was slamming his lips over hers and he was …

Kissing
her?

Her world whirled sickeningly because he was angry and she was angry and his mouth wasn’t at all gentle, but somehow, despite all of that, or maybe
because
all of that, she felt it: a stirring. A warmth down below where—

No! This wasn’t right; this wasn’t going to happen, not for this man of all men. She tried to arch her head away, but he had a hand on the back of her neck, holding her there as he opened his mouth against hers, sweetly hot,
wrongly
enticing, and she
bit
him. She clamped down on his lower lip, tasting blood, whimpering. She couldn’t take much more of this, couldn’t hold out, but he didn’t pull away. He still held her close against his large, warm, masculine frame and she could feel that part of him now, hard and erect, pushing into her, even through her many skirts, and the feeling was supposed to repulse and scare her.

Instead it made her wet.

She gasped and he surged into her mouth in triumphant possession.

No.
Nonono
. She wasn’t this person. She refused to be.

He wouldn’t stop. He was going to make her betray herself, betray Roger, and she simply couldn’t let that happen. It would destroy what she had left of her world. The Ghost was so intent on her mouth, on teaching her that apparently it didn’t matter
who
pressed his tongue between her lips, licking so … so …

He’d let go of her arms.

She brought them up around his back, withdrew the dagger, and stabbed, with all her strength, with all her fear, with all her sorrow.

She felt the resistance of the wool, the solidity of the muscle, felt how,
disgustingly, it was like carving beefsteak. She dug the knife into his back as far as she could, until it scraped against something hard in him.

He lifted his head, finally,
finally
looking at her with shocked, hurt, gray eyes, and parted his bloodied lips.

“Oh, Megs.”

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.”