Lord of Darkness (15 page)

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.”

G
ODRIC’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.

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.

G
ODRIC 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.”