Lord of Darkness (8 page)

Great-Aunt Elvina’s brows had snapped together. She wasn’t known for her sense of humor. “Mr. St. John!”

He turned to her attentively. “Ma’am?”

“I cannot believe you would suggest tying a child to the wall.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Godric said as he poured himself more wine. “You have me entirely wrong.”

“Well, that’s a relief—”

“I meant the child should hang
on
the wall.” He looked kindly at the elderly woman. “Like a picture, as it were.”

Megs had to cover her mouth with one hand to still the giggles bubbling up from inside. Who would’ve guessed that her somberly dry husband could say such outrageous things?

She glanced up and caught her breath. Godric was watching her
, his lips slightly curved as he sipped from his wineglass, and she had the oddest notion: that he’d teased Great-Aunt Elvina solely to amuse her.

“Godric,” Sarah chided.

He turned toward his sister, and Megs blinked. She was reading too much into what was merely play between Godric and his sister.

Still.

It would’ve been nice to have some kind of connection to him. She was drawing closer to the point—the time when she would lie with this man. Perform a very intimate act, which she’d only done before with one man—a man she’d loved. To somehow seduce a near stranger into, well,
tupping
her was a daunting task. If there were any other way of accomplishing her mission, she’d take it and gladly. But there wasn’t, of course. Bedding her husband was the only way to have her child.

Megs picked through the rest of the meal, her nervousness compounding as the hour grew later.

After supper, the four of them retired to the newly dusted library, where Sarah persuaded Godric to read aloud from a history of the monarchs of England while Great-Aunt Elvina nodded off in a wing chair. Sarah brought her needlework bag and was soon contentedly intent on her embroidery, but Megs had never been very adept at fine sewing. For several minutes she wandered the room, her husband’s deep, husky voice making her nerves jangle, until Sarah complained that her “pacing” was distracting.

Megs sat and could only watch Godric as he read. The candle beside him sent a flickering light across his face, catching on high cheekbones and the hint of a dark beard along
his jaw and upper lip. His eyes were downturned as he read, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his face. He seemed younger somehow, despite his habitual gray wig and the half-moon spectacles he used to read. While the thought should’ve reassured her, it only added to Megs’s internal agitation.

He glanced up then, his eyes dark and hidden. She tried to smile, tried to look back at him alluringly, but her lips trembled imperceptibly. His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there, his face brooding. She caught her breath. She did not know this man. Not really.

At last the party adjourned for the night and Megs nearly fled up the stairs. Daniels was waiting in her room and helped her to undress and don her usual chemise for bed. Megs gazed at herself in the mirror as Daniels brushed out her hair and wished belatedly that she’d thought to buy a new chemise. Something in silk, perhaps. Something she could seduce a husband in. The one she wore wasn’t old, but it was rather ordinary white lawn with only a bit of embroidery about the yoke.

“Thank you, Daniels,” she said when Daniels had already brushed her hair for twice as long as she normally did.

The maid curtsied and retired.

Megs stood and faced the communal door to her husband’s room. No more nerves, she chided herself. No more prevarications, no excuses, no dawdling. She clutched the doorknob and opened the door wide.

Only to find the room empty.

“A
FTER HIM, MEN
!”

The deep growl of the dragoon captain echoed off
the buildings as Godric swore and darted into a narrow alley, running flat out. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the night in St. Giles. He’d hoped to question an old acquaintance about the lassie snatchers. Instead, almost the moment he’d stepped foot in St. Giles, he’d had the misfortune to run into the dragoons—and their near-maniacal commander.

The alley let out into a series of courtyards, but he didn’t doubt the dragoons were circling to cut him off. Godric ducked into a well in the side of a building made by steps giving access to a basement.

Footsteps trotted up the alley.

Godric flattened himself against the near wall and prayed.

“We’ll get the bastard tonight if God is on our side,” came the voice of Captain James Trevillion from just above.

Godric rolled his eyes. The captain and his dragoons had been sent into St. Giles three years ago to quell the sale of gin and capture the Ghost of St. Giles. They’d achieved neither aim. Oh, the soldiers had rounded up plenty of gin sellers, but there were always more to take their place. Trevillion might as well be trying to empty the Thames with a tin cup. As to his search for the Ghost of St. Giles, despite being almost rabidly dedicated to his task, the captain had yet to lay hands on him.

And if Godric had anything to do with it, Trevillion’s luck wouldn’t change tonight.

He waited until the heavy boots of the soldiers had run past, then waited a bit more. When at last he ventured forth, the alley was empty.

Or at least it looked so. Trevillion was a wily hunter and
had been known to retrace his steps just when a quarry thought himself safe.

Tonight was not a good night for his Ghostly activities.

Godric made the mouth of the alley just in time. Trevillion had indeed sent some of his men to double back. There were three, only twenty yards away, when he emerged and Godric was forced to take to his heels, cursing under his breath.

Thirty long minutes later, he dropped into his own garden. Saint House had been built at a time when access to the river was of paramount importance to aristocrats, both as a sign of prestige and, more practically, as a means of transport. The garden ran from the back of the house to the old river gate—a grand crumbling arch that gave access to the private steps leading to the river. His ancestors might’ve enjoyed displaying their wealth with private pleasure barges on the Thames, but Godric liked Saint House’s situation for more nefarious reasons: it was perfectly placed for a Ghost to come and go with no one the wiser.

Tonight he paused for a moment as he always did in the shadows of the garden, waiting, watching to make sure the way was clear. Nothing moved save the shadow of a cat strolling past, entirely unconcerned with his presence. Godric inhaled and crept up the garden path to his house. He carefully pushed open the door and entered his own study. He glanced around, noting that he was alone, and only then felt a measure of relief. Not that long ago he’d received a nasty surprise here.

Tonight, though, the fire was dead and the room dark. He felt his way to a certain panel by the fireplace and pressed the old wood. The panel popped out, revealing a
cubbyhole in the wall and his nightclothes. Swiftly Godric stripped off his Ghostly costume and donned a nightshirt, banyan, and slippers.

Turning, he left the study and started for his own bedroom, feeling weariness sink into his bones. It’d been a long day. He still had no clear idea of how long Margaret planned to stay in town. Both his sister and the old tarter of an aunt had made vague references to the length of their trip—obviously they looked upon it as only a visit. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Margaret intended something more—a longer stay or, God help him, to take up permanent residence.

He was distracted by the thought, his defenses already lowered by the perceived safety of his own home. And as he entered his bedroom, he was attacked. Strong arms circled his neck, a body bore him back against the wall, and hands clutched at the back of his head. He smelled orange blossoms.

Then Margaret kissed him.

Megs’s first thought was that Godric was hard—much harder than she’d thought a man getting on in years would be. It was as if all of his muscles turned to stone the moment she touched him. She knew this because the momentum of her kiss had forced him back against the wall as she pressed herself into him. Chest, belly, arms, and thighs were unyieldingly obdurate against her much-softer body. She angled her head, opening her mouth, tasting wine on his cold lips—and nothing happened. She was trying all her wiles, which, granted, weren’t all that sophisticated, but still … was the man made of rock?

The air burst from her lungs in a puff of frustration and she drew back a little to look into his face.

Which
was a mistake.

His crystal gray eyes were narrowed, his mouth flattened, and his nostrils flared just a bit. All in all,
not
an encouraging expression.

“Margaret,” he clipped out, using her full Christian name, “what are you doing?”

She winced. If he had to ask, her attempt at seduction must be truly lacking.

Baby.
She must keep her purpose at the forefront of her mind.

She smiled, though the effort might’ve been a trifle strained. “I … I thought tonight would be a good time to become better acquainted.”

“Acquainted.” The word dropped, lifeless and heavy from his lips, and fell like a dead halibut between them.

She’d never liked fish.
Megs inhaled to explain, but he set his hands on her waist, lifted her up and aside, and strolled past her to the fireplace.

Megs goggled. She’d never been one of those fairylike girls, the ones who lived on marzipan and the odd strawberry here and there. She was a bit over average height and had the figure of a woman with a fondness for hearty country food. Yet her husband—her
elderly
husband—had lifted her with as little effort as he would a fluffy kitten.

Megs squinted at Godric, now on one knee by the hearth, stirring up the fire that had died while she’d dozed waiting for his return. He’d left off his soft cap tonight, and she saw for the first time the shorn hair that lay close to his scalp. It was dark, nearly black, but there was a wide swath of gray at both temples.

“How old
are
you?” she demanded, truly without thinking.

He
sighed, still efficiently prodding the fire into life. “Seven and thirty and, I’m afraid, well past the age of enjoying surprises.”

He stood and turned, and somehow he seemed taller tonight, his shoulders broader. Without his gray wig, without the habitual half-moon reading spectacles, he seemed … well, not younger, precisely, but certainly more virile.

Megs shivered. Virile was good. Virile was what she most needed in the prospective father of her child.

Why, then, did Godric seem suddenly more
daunting
as well?

He gestured to one of the chairs before the fireplace. “Please. Sit down.”

She sank into the chair, feeling a bit like she had the time her governess had caught her hoarding sugared almonds.

He leaned against the mantel and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“We’ve been married two years,” she began, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them. Best to try not to look like a schoolboy being called on the carpet by a particularly dreary schoolmaster.

“You seemed happy enough at Laurelwood Manor.”

“I was. I am. …” She held her hands flat out and shook her head. “No.” She wasn’t making any sense, but the time had come to stop prevaricating. “No. I’ve been
content
enough, but not entirely happy.”

His dark brows drew together as he stared at her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She leaned forward urgently. “I’m not blaming you by any means. Laurelwood is a wonderful place to live. I
love the gardens, Upper Hornsfield, the people, and your family.”

One eyebrow arched. “But?”

“But it—
I’m
—missing something.” She jumped to her feet, pacing restlessly around the chair, trying to think how to make him understand. At the last moment, she realized her direction was taking her to the bed. She stopped short and whirled, blurting, “I want—I desperately
need
—a child, Godric.”

For a moment he simply stared at her as if stunned speechless. Then his gaze dropped to the fire. The light behind him silhouetted his profile, outlining a long brow and straight nose, and Megs thought rather irreverently that his lips from this angle looked so soft, almost feminine.

But not quite. “I see.”

She shook her head, pacing again. “Do you?”
Not toward the bed.
“I was pregnant when we entered into this marriage. I know it was wrong of me, but I wanted that child—Roger’s child. Even in the grief of his passing, it was something to hold on to—something of my very own.” She stopped before his dresser, severely ordered, severely plain, only a washing basin, a pitcher, and a small dish on its surface all equidistant from each other. She reached out and picked up the dish. “A child. A baby.
My
baby.”