Lord of Darkness

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.”