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.”
Chapter Eight
Faith looked up and saw before them a black, swirling river that stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see. The Hellequin never hesitated but rode his great black horse directly into the river. Faith took a firmer grip on his shoulders and looked down as the horse began to swim. There in the inky water she saw strange, white wispy forms drifting past, and the longer she stared, the more they seemed nearly human. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
The second time Godric woke that day it was to the sound of muffled giggles. He glanced at his window and from the angle of the light shining in estimated it to be late afternoon. Apparently, he’d slept the day away after his catastrophic argument with Megs. Remembering her avowal to traipse into St. Giles and attempt to kill the murderer of her damned dead lover made his head start to pound.
She was his wife.
It was his duty to protect her, to keep her from her own folly, and he would’ve done that even if he hadn’t grown rather … fond of her in the last several days.
The stab of pain behind his left eye at that thought was quite awful.
Godric sighed and rose carefully. Moulder had patched him up the night before, muttering all the while that the wound was but a tiny thing, hardly worth the effort. It didn’t feel tiny as all that today, though. He had trouble lifting his left arm to put on a shirt, and it took him awhile to don stockings, breeches, and shoes. Still, Godric acknowledged that he’d had much worse injuries in the past.
There’d been times when he’d not risen from bed for days.
He shrugged on his waistcoat, buttoned it, and left his toilet at that for the moment, crossing to the door that connected with his wife’s room. Another husky laugh sparked his curiosity and he knocked once before opening the door.
Megs sat on the round carpet by her bed, her skirts a pool of apple green and pink about her. The four little maids recently apprenticed from the home squatted beside her like acolytes to a particularly pretty pagan priestess, and on her lap was the cause of their mirth: a squirming, fat, ratlike thing.
Megs looked up at his entrance, her face shining. For a moment he caught his breath—it was almost like a light radiated from within her, and he was very glad that she’d apparently decided not to hold their argument against him.
“Oh, Godric, come see! Her Grace has had her puppies.” And she held out the ratlike thing—which, apparently, was a pug puppy—like a peace offering.
Godric raised his brows, sinking into a chair. “It’s quite … lovely?”
“Oh, pooh!” She retracted her arms, cuddling the tiny creature against her cheek. “Don’t listen to Mr. St. John,” she whispered to the puppy as if in confidence. “You’re the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”
All four maids giggled.
Godric raised an eyebrow, replying mildly, “I said it was lovely.”
His wife’s laughing brown eyes peeked at him over the soft fawn creature. “Yes, but your tone said the opposite.”
He started to shrug, but the sudden bite at his shoulder made him regret the movement.
He thought he’d suppressed the wince, but Megs’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you, girls. Mary Compassion, could you take the other Marys downstairs? I’m sure Mrs. Crumb has need of you now.”
The girls looked a bit disappointed, but they rose obediently and left the bedroom, trailing the eldest.
Megs waited until the door closed behind them. “How are you?”
She held the puppy to her face almost like a shield against him, and he wished she’d put the animal down so he could see her expression.
“Well enough,” he replied.
She nodded, meeting his gaze at last. Tears sparkled in her eyes and his chest tightened. “I’m so very, very sorry that I hurt you.”
If she wished not to speak of their earlier argument, it was fine with him. “You’ve already apologized, and besides, there’s no need. It wasn’t your fault. I suppose you thought I was attacking you.”
She looked away and he felt a sinking sensation. Had his kiss been that repulsive, then?
There was a short and, for him at least, very awkward silence.
Finally he gestured to the puppy in her arms. “Doesn’t the mother want her offspring back?”
“Oh, yes,” Megs murmured, and to Godric’s astonishment she turned and lay on her belly to place the puppy under her bed.
A squeak and rustle came from the shadows there.
Megs straightened and turned.
Godric raised his brows.
“Her Grace is under there with her puppies—three of them,” Megs answered his silent question. “We think she whelped sometime last evening, but I didn’t notice until late this morning when I heard the puppies crying.”
“Strange,” Godric murmured as he watched her rise from the floor, “that the dog chose your room to give birth.”
Megs shrugged, shaking out her skirts. “I’m just glad we found her. Great-Aunt Elvina was so worried when she realized Her Grace was missing from her room this morning.”
He nodded absently. How was he to keep her safe? How was he to save her from her own gallant heart?
She inhaled as if bracing herself. “Godric?”
He watched her warily. “Yes?”
“Can you tell me how”—she waved her hands in a fluttering gesture between them—“how this happened? How you came to be the Ghost of St. Giles?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course.”
PREHAPS IF SHE could understand why he did this dreadful thing, then she could somehow dissuade him, Megs thought.
Godric was still pale. Megs examined her husband while trying to hide her concern, but his gaze was steady, his body solid and strong in the chair. She took a moment to marvel again that at one time she’d thought this man almost infirm. She realized now that he might not be as tall or as bulky as some men, but he was solid, as if he were made of some durable, indestructible material. Granite, maybe. Or iron that would never rust. Something strong and muscular and … and masculine.
Megs glanced down at her hands in confusion at the thought of her husband’s body and nearly mi
ssed his next words.
“Have you ever heard of Sir Stanley Gilpin?”
She looked up again. “No, I don’t think so.”
He nodded as if her reply was expected. “He was a distant relation of my father’s, dead now for several years. A third cousin or some such. He was a wealthy man of business in the city, but he also had other interests.”
“Such as?”
“Theater. He owned a theater at one time and even wrote some plays.”
“Really?” She couldn’t see what this had to do with the Ghost of St. Giles, but she forced herself to sink into a chair at right angles to his, laying her hands decorously one atop the other. Fidgeting was, sadly, a particular failing of hers. “What are their titles? Perhaps I’ve seen one.”
“I very much doubt it.” His look was wry. “I loved Sir Stanley like a father, but his playwriting skills were terrible. I’m not sure any of his plays saw a stage beyond the first one, The Romance of the Porpoise and the Hedgehog.”
Megs felt her eyebrows lift, interested despite herself. “The … porpoise?”
He nodded. “And the hedgehog. As I said, simply terrible, but I’ve gotten off track.” He leaned forward, wincing a little, and set his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands clasped in front of him. “I don’t know if you know this, but my mother died when I was ten.”
She’d known his mother must be dead since Sarah’s mother was his stepmother, but she hadn’t realized how young he’d been when his mother died. Ten was such a delicate age. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look up. “I was close to her and took her death rather hard. Then, three years later, my father remarried. I did not react well.”
His tone was dry, unemotional, but somehow she knew that he hadn’t been nearly so stoic as a young boy. He must’ve suffered horrible inner turmoil. “What happened?”
“My father sent me away to school,” he said, “and then at the vacation, Sir Stanley Gilpin offered to let me stay with him.”
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