Lord of Darkness

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.”

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.