Lord of Darkness (34 page)

Well, at least he was alive.

He turned wearily back to the children in time to see Alf kneel in front of a small, grimy redheaded girl. Alf was scowling fiercely, perhaps in an attempt to keep from seeming like she cared as she tenderly wiped the child’s tearstained face.

The sight almost made his heart lighten. He tried to tell himself that the girls were rescued and that was the main thing, but it didn’t lift the leaden weight in his chest. He’d seen the face of his attacker, the man responsible for enslaving children in St. Giles, the man he’d let escape alive, and Godric knew that the man was near untouchable. He’d never be brought to justice.

For the swordsman had been the Earl of Kershaw.

T
HERE WAS BLOOD
on Godric.

Megs couldn’t think, couldn’t
see
beyond that one stark fact. She stood stock-still for an awful, endless minute after he opened the door to his bedroom, simply staring at the long bandage on his right arm and the slit, bloody sleeve that hung, flapping. She’d been waiting there, awake and pacing, ever since he’d left, and the room was in a bit of a mess—not that she cared. Moulder was behind him and Godric was saying something, but she couldn’t hear.

“Get out,” she told the manservant, unable to even phrase the order politely.

Moulder took
one look at her and fled.

Godric wasn’t so smart. He was frowning slightly now and saying something about
a minor cut
and
looks worse than it is
, and
Moulder has already seen to it
, despite the fact that anyone could see he was holding his left arm stiffly as well, and she just wanted to
hit
him.

Instead she grabbed his face in both of her hands and stood on tiptoe to bring her mouth to his. She kissed him savagely, her lips wide, her tongue demanding wet access to his mouth, and it was a damned good thing he opened at once, because she would’ve bitten him if he hadn’t. She heard him groan and then his arms started to wrap around her, but she wasn’t having any of it.

She broke free to attack the falls of his Ghost costume. “You
lied
to me.”

“I came back alive,” he said in a soothing voice. At least he never pretended that he didn’t know the reason for her anger.

“I said alive and
whole
,” she snapped, finally wrenching two buttons off. “
That
is not whole.”

“Megs,” he started, no doubt to make some stupid
male
excuse, and she shoved him none too gently into the one straight-backed chair.

She wasn’t strong enough to manhandle him—she knew that somewhere in the back of her maddened brain. He must be conceding to her anger, letting her push him about.

Perversely it only made her madder.

She dropped to her knees, roughly spreading his legs and shuffling forward between them.

His eyes widened, which, at any other time she might’ve taken pride in. The man had been the Ghost of St. Giles for
years—there mustn’t be many things that could surprise him.

“What—”

She reached forward and yanked open his fall and the smallclothes beneath, watching in satisfaction as his cock bobbed out, ruddy and half hard.

She took his length gently between her hands, her arms resting on his thighs, and looked up into his face. “I’m very,
very
angry with you.”

And she opened her mouth over him. She’d never done this—although she’d wanted to before. She’d always been too shy, too worried that he’d think her sluttish or not like what she did.

But here,
now
, she simply didn’t care anymore.

She trailed a line of kisses down his length, marveling at the pulsing warmth within him, then licked up the strong tendon on the underside.

He muttered something and his hips jerked under her arms, half lifting her.

She wanted to tell him to never go back to St. Giles. That she’d find Roger’s killer herself. That she couldn’t bear anymore to see him hurt. But she’d already told him that before and it hadn’t changed his mind.
She
couldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t allow her that far in.

But he would allow this.

She mouthed around the thick head of his cock, tasting the tang of his skin. She pulled back to stare at him as he’d stared at her once. The tiny slit at the top of his penis was leaking, and she drew her thumb through the clear liquid, smearing it about the soft skin.

The strong length in her hands jumped.

She smiled when she felt that and leaned down to kiss the very
tip, the warm wetness smearing across her lips. She looked up and saw that the color was high across his cheekbones and his eyelids half shielded his glittering gray eyes. Still watching, she took the head of his cock into her mouth and suckled.

His nostrils flared and he bit his lip, but he did no more, staring back at her as she opened her mouth and licked slowly around the head. Later she would be embarrassed by her boldness.

Right now she reveled in the freedom he gave her.

But when she lightly scraped her teeth around the rim, he moved.

“Megs,” he growled, and reached for her.

She didn’t like that—she wasn’t done playing. She half rose and scrambled backward, trying to dodge his hands, her anger rising again.

“Damn it, Megs!”

He lunged and she reacted instinctively, a thrill of alarm shooting through her. She got to her feet and made two abortive strides.

It wasn’t fair of her—he was wounded. She should’ve been able to get away.

He slammed her against the bed, using his greater weight and height to hold her there.

She was wedged between him and the bed, panting, though their struggle had only been a matter of seconds. He was behind her, his body pressed against her back, his erection imprinted on her buttocks, his arms braced on either side of her.

She could feel his breath puffing against her ear. She waited, expecting him to turn her around to face him.

Instead he began gathering her wrapper and chemise.

She caught
her breath.

He whispered a kiss behind her ear. “Hold still.”

Her bottom was bare now, her skin cooling in the air, and she felt the hot slide of his cock across her hip.

He placed his hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her gently but firmly down, until her upper half lay across the bed and her lower half was canted up, waiting for his pleasure.

She felt him nudge her legs apart, and then his palm was on her hip and she felt it: the nudge of his cock against her entrance. He seemed somehow larger in this position and she heard him grunt as he began squeezing his way in. She was wet, but she felt each ridge of his penis as he pushed himself slowly into her.

Her hands clutched at the bedclothes.

He seemed to take forever, widening her, burrowing into her swollen tissues. Then he made a final shove and she felt the fabric of his leggings brush firmly against her bottom.

He held himself there and she could hear the sound of his rough breathing in the quiet of the room. She bit her lip, mirroring his earlier grimace. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath—and he hadn’t even started to move.

And then he did, a slick, hard slide that rubbed against something wonderful inside of her. She couldn’t help the squeaking cry she gave, and as if her hips moved of their own accord, she began bumping back against him.

He huffed a rough laugh. “So impatient.”

She turned her head to scowl at him—or at least she meant to, but he chose that moment to reverse his glide, thrusting back into her.

Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Oh.”

“You like
that?” he whispered.

She nodded, unable to speak. He was embedding himself into her over and over, his cock rubbing against her deliciously, and she couldn’t help but tilt her bottom up in submissive invitation. She burrowed one hand underneath and found her nub as he filled her again and again, his hardness sliding against her wet fingers.

His breath caught and he swiveled his hips, grinding against her, leaning close over her, whispering low in her ear. “You’re touching yourself, aren’t you?”

She swallowed, closing her eyes in bliss. “Y-yes.”

“
God
,” he muttered, and she wondered if he’d finally lost the power of speech.

Perhaps he had, for he suddenly planted one hand over her shoulder and shoved hard into her, pressing her into the mattress. He was pushing her body up the bed with quick, forceful jabs that spread her apart, made her see a starburst behind her closed lids.

A spike of near-painful pleasure bloomed between her legs, flowing and expanding through her, a river of sweet completion. She moaned, loud and low.

He stiffened behind her, his hips still working, even as his hot seed filled her, as if he didn’t want to stop. And then he fell against her, his heat surrounding and cradling her. She felt his chest pressing into her back as he fought to catch his breath.

She should feel squashed beneath him, but instead she felt protected and oddly cherished.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as he moved his right arm—the one with the white bandage—and twined his fingers with hers, squeezing gently.

Were it up to her, they would stay this way forever.

If Hell existed on earth, Artemis Greaves was walking into it. Her shoes crunched on fine gravel in a huge, nearly empty courtyard. Behind her were the tall iron gates. Before her, the baroque façade of a magnificent, beautiful building. White Corinthian columns marched in paired rows along the front, crowned by a central dome with a clock, the Roman numerals picked out in gold. The gilding was repeated on the top of the dome, a spinet with the figure of a veiled woman.

Artemis shivered and glanced at the front doors.

Hell might have a gorgeous shell, but it still roasted the damned within.

She passed
the porter and paid him her precious penny, though she wasn’t here to sightsee. Under the dome was an echoing hall with two long galleries leading off to her left and her right. It was early yet and the visitors were few, but that didn’t mean the inhabitants of Hell weren’t awake. They moaned or babbled, if they could make utterance, except for the few who simply howled.

Artemis ignored the galleries, walking straight on. Beyond the dome, two staircases curved away into space. She mounted the one to the left, holding her covered basket carefully. It wouldn’t do to spill her few, meager offerings.

At the top of the stairs, a man sat on a wooden stool, looking bored. He was tall and thin and Artemis had amused herself—rather morbidly—on previous visits by noting his resemblance to Charon.

She paid Charon his due—a tuppence—and watched as he took out his key and unlocked the depths of Hell.

The stink hit her first, a thing so solid it was like wading into filth. Artemis held the handkerchief on which she’d sprinkled lavender water up to her nose as she made her way. The inhabitants here were always chained, and many could not or did not make it to their chamber pots. To either side were small, open rooms, almost like stable stalls, though most stables smelled better and were cleaner than this place. Each room held a denizen of Hell, and she tried to avoid looking in as she passed.

She’d had nightmares in the past from what she’d seen.

It was actually quieter up here than the vast galleries below, whether because the inhabitants were fewer or because they’d long since given up hope. Still there was a low droning of something that once might’ve been song and a high
giggling that stopped and started fitfully. She knew to skip swiftly past a cell on her right, dodging the foul missile that flew out, hitting the wall opposite.

The last chamber on the left was where she found him. He squatted on filthy straw like Samson restrained: manacles on both ankles and a new one—she saw to her horror—about his neck. The heavy iron ring encircling his neck chained him to the wall with not enough slack to let him lie down fully. He was forced to crouch, leaning against the wall if he wanted to rest, and she wondered what would happen if he slept and fell forward. Would he strangle himself in the night without anyone knowing?

He looked up as she hesitated in the entrance to the chamber, and a broad smile lit his face. “Artemis.”

She went immediately to him. “What have they done to you, my heart?”

She knelt before him and took his face in her hands. There was a lump over one hairy eyebrow, a scabbed graze high on his right cheekbone, and a cut on his too-broad nose. It looked broken.