Lord of Darkness (38 page)

Godric.

His nose was straight in profile and rather elegant, which was a funny thing to think about a man’s nose, but it was. The nostrils were slim and well defined, the bridge of his nose shadowed on either side. His mouth, too, had always been beautiful, his lips lighter than the surrounding skin, almost soft-looking. She raised a hand and touched. Lightly, tracing, feeling the slight scrape of his beard on one side, the smooth softness on the other.

His lips parted. “Megs.”

His voice, too, had always enthralled her. So gruff and low, sounding as if he’d spent the day shouting angrily at someone.

Except he wasn’t an angry man, not really, and certainly not with her.

He rolled toward her so that they were face-to-face. “You should sleep, Meggie mine.”

“But
I’m not sleepy.”

He watched her, his gray eyes weary, saying nothing, simply waiting to see what she wished. It grieved her, what this strong, good man would do for her, and it made her uneasy too.

She fit her lips to his and whispered, “Make love to me, please.”

And he complied as he had with every other thing she’d asked of him.

He ran his long, graceful fingers into her hair and grasped the back of her head, holding her, embracing her, making her feel cherished.

His tongue licked into her mouth, gently probing, gently tracing her teeth and the roof of her mouth. She caught his tongue and suckled, pressing her palm against his chest so she could feel his heat, the steadfast beat of his heart. His mouth opened against hers, slanting, nibbling at the corner of her lips. He slid over her cheek to her temple, kissing her tenderly there.

“Godric,” she whispered, her voice catching.

There was something he intended to do, something involving Lord Kershaw, and she thought she should find out what it was, make him confess his secrets.

But then he caught the skirts of her chemise and flung it up over her hip and she forgot. He kissed her on the mouth and drew back, watching her as he took her upper leg and drew it over his own, opening her. His hand dropped again, and she felt as he delved between her thighs, gently stroking.

Her eyelids drooped, and her hand rose to his jaw, bringing him closer so she could kiss him again as his knuckle brushed against her clitoris. He pressed there, and she arched her hips into his hand, wanting more, until
he withdrew his hand. She moaned in protest, hearing his breathless hush in reply, and then she felt his bare cock against her thigh.

She opened her eyes, staring into his.

“Come closer,” he whispered.

She did, inching close, so close that her hips were against his and she felt him at her entrance.

He moved slowly, pressing inside, widening her, making his own place for himself in her body. She watched his face as he breached her. His eyebrows were slightly knit, his mouth curved down. There was something in his dark eyes, a kind of sorrowful well, and she leaned forward to kiss him again.

Then he was as far inside her as he could go. He rocked against her, the movement gentle but strong. She tightened her leg against his still-clad buttocks, rocking with him, and they moved together like a rolling wave.

He gasped a little, his mouth against hers, and she bit down on his lip, opening her eyes lazily, lost in bliss.

Tears stood in his eyes.

She drew back, growing still, shocked. But he blinked and hitched her leg higher, pressing his thumb just above the place where they were joined. And she forgot, leaning into him, wanting this to last a lifetime, this slow movement, this gradual swelling.

He shifted a little higher and she gasped. With every slow grind, he was drawing across that sensitive point, lighting sparks within her.

He kissed her again, his mouth almost wild in contrast to the movement of his hips. It was building now, that savage feeling, and she was making tiny noises in her throat. Noises she couldn’t control. He splayed his hand against
her cheek, his thumb between her lips. She licked his thumb and he thrust hard against her.

She clutched at him, so close, almost there, and then his hand was stroking, pressing, and the sparks burst into flames behind her eyes. She cried out, arching her neck, nearly breaking their kiss, but he followed her, hungrily feeding on her mouth.

He thrust one last time, powerfully, and she felt the flood of his semen within her.

There was something … something she wanted to know. Something she should ask of him, but her limbs were liquid soft, warm and languid, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

She felt the brush of his lips against her brow and the whisper of three words, but she was already so close to sleep it might’ve been a dream.

G
ODRIC WAITED UNTIL
Megs’s breathing became deep and even, and then he waited longer. Much longer than he should’ve, but then she’d become his weakness. His Achilles’ heel, the one person who had reached deep down inside him and grasped his heart, squeezing until it started beating again.

She’d brought him back to life.

And in return it was only fair that he gift her with a death.

By the time he finally moved, it was after dusk, which was just as well since it was his element. He huffed out a breath, nearly but not quite a laugh. Godric St. John: Lord of Darkness. He looked down at her as he eased from the bed. Why such a creature of light and love and life should have come to him, he could not fathom. But he was grateful.

Very
grateful.

He wanted to kiss her one last time, to impress her beauty upon his mind and carry it with him on whatever journey this night brought him, but he feared to wake her.

In the end, he simply left his bedroom without touching her again.

He called Moulder and dressed swiftly in his Ghost costume, answering the manservant’s questions curtly. He took both swords because he would need them, and further injury would be a moot point after tonight anyway. And then he stole into his element.

The darkness.

The night was chill, but not overly so, the hint of spring’s awakening whispering on the soft breeze. Overhead, the moon veiled herself seductively with wispy clouds. Godric looked carefully but caught no sight of anyone lurking. Perhaps Captain Trevillion had finally conceded the need for sleep.

He loped west, toward the more fashionable parts of London where the aristocracy built their new houses. Toward the Earl of Kershaw’s house.

He’d made his promise to Megs and he intended to keep it. Had he the time, he might’ve researched his enemy, found his weaknesses and flaws and brought him down more subtly. But that plan had changed perforce with the scene in the garden. Kershaw was a threat to Megs now. He’d not missed the look of hatred the other man had shot his Meggie when she’d lunged at him. She wouldn’t be quiet, wouldn’t do the safe thing and leave him alone. A man such as Kershaw didn’t leave such potential dangers living. Fraser-Burnsby was an obvious example.

Godric shuddered and stopped at a corner, leaning into
the rough brick building over a chandler’s shop. The mere thought of Megs in danger, of Kershaw somehow finding a way to hurt her, made crimson flood his vision. He would not—
could
not—let the other man live while he was a threat to Megs and their child.

That thought—that she was carrying his babe—steadied him enough to start off again. It was a strange but not unwelcome feeling to know that she carried his child. That someday she would hold a babe against her pretty white breast and that the child would be part of him as well.

For the first time in a very long while, he yearned to see tomorrow. Tomorrow and the day after that and the year after that. There was a possibility that with Megs he might have a life to look forward to. And because of that, tonight he was going to hunt down a man and assassinate him in cold blood. This act would damn his very soul, but for Megs it was worth it.

For his Meggie he would walk the fires of Hell.

It took another half hour to reach Kershaw’s London town house. It stood in a modern square, white stone town houses on all sides, elegant and reserved. The moon was waning now, coyly hiding behind her cloudy veils. Godric approached Kershaw’s residence cautiously, sliding in and out of the shadows, searching for any sign of movement from the house.

He was surprised when the front door opened.

Godric stilled, half hidden in the shadows by the stairs leading to the front door of a house across the way. He watched as Kershaw appeared on his step. The earl stood there, looking around impatiently, and Godric felt his hands fist. A carriage rolled around the corner and Kershaw got in.

Godric
frowned, considering his options. No matter what else happened, he had to kill Kershaw and fast, before the man had a chance to hurt Megs.

He decided to follow the carriage, trailing it as it moved east. The roads in London were narrow and sometimes crowded, even at night, so he hauled himself up the corner of a building, grunting at the twinge from his left wrist, and followed by rooftop. Still Godric lost the carriage twice and had to scramble over sliding tiles to keep up, cursing under his breath until he caught sight of the thing again. He considered the destination of his prey as he panted along. Was Kershaw going to a ball or the theater? If so, Godric would have to cool his heels waiting for the man. On the other hand, such events were often crowded with carriages jockeying to either deposit or pick up their occupants. Perhaps he could catch the man unawares in a crowd. This wouldn’t be a noble duel.

If need be, Godric would stab the earl in the back.

But it soon became apparent that the carriage was making for St. Giles, which meant this certainly wasn’t a social outing. Was the earl scouting new locations for his workshops? Godric shook his head. The man was engorged with hubris if he thought he could simply set up shop again in St. Giles.

Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped outside a dingy building that was all but leaning against its neighbor. There was no sign to indicate a shop, but a single lantern lit the low doorway, almost as if Kershaw had been expected. Godric lowered himself carefully to the ground and paused in the jut of a low wall, watching as a woman emerged from the building. She was tall and bony, and when she turned, the lantern light fell upon her face and
he recognized the slattern who’d been at the third workshop. She stood, arms akimbo, and said something to Kershaw, still in the carriage. There was a pause and she threw up her hands, turning as if angered. At that, the carriage door flew open and Kershaw emerged to hit her across the face, nearly knocking her down. She steadied herself, though, and went back into the shop.

There were two footmen on the back of the carriage and they descended as well, spreading out on either side of Kershaw. He’d brought guards. For himself or something—or
someone
—else?

The door to the crumbling building opened again and the slattern came back out, grasping a little girl in each hand. But they weren’t who the guards were there for. Behind her was a third tough, both hands gripping tightly a much smaller figure in front of him. She was slim and held herself defiantly, but her face was bruised and she’d lost her old hat.

Alf. They had Alf.

If he waited until they got her into the carriage, he might lose the carriage—and both her and the little girls. Alf had said that the lassie snatchers wanted her dead, and he was surprised that she was still alive. He would’ve thought they’d kill her on sight.

There was no other choice.

Godric charged the tableau.

The guard closest to him still had his back to Godric. A quick thrust with his short sword under the man’s ribs dispatched him, though it sent agonizing shards of pain up Godric’s wrist.

“You!” Godric looked up to see Kershaw, face inflamed with rage, shouting at him. “Kill him!”

The
earl didn’t wait to see if his orders would be obeyed. He drew his sword as Godric rushed him and brought it up, repelling Godric’s initial thrust. Godric pivoted past him as their swords locked, making sure to keep his back away from Kershaw’s guards.

Faintly he could hear the sounds of horses approaching.

Then Godric concentrated on killing Kershaw. He felt the jar to his shoulder as he pushed against the other man, making him fall back. He jabbed at the earl’s middle, then his head, moving fast, not giving Kershaw time to gather himself to make his own attack. The earl’s eyes were wide, his mouth open and panting, his lips wet. Kershaw feinted to Godric’s left and then kicked viciously at his knee. Godric moved, taking the blow on his outer thigh instead. But the earl had expected him to go down. His thrust had gone past Godric, and for a second Kershaw was overextended, his long sword of no use. Godric brought up his short sword and pressed it into the soft skin just under the earl’s right arm.

Kershaw froze, eyes widening.

A shot rang out.

Godric glanced over his shoulder and met Captain Trevillion’s cold blue eyes. They were surrounded by dragoons on horseback, all of them aiming pistols at his head.

“Hold hard, Ghost.”

M
EGS WOKE GASPING
in the dark, heart beating hard, breath strangled in her throat, and knew at once that something was wrong. Shreds of her nightmare still lingered, a haunting vision of Godric caught in a black oily pit, slowly being sucked down while she did nothing.

Did
nothing
while
her husband’s mouth and nostrils were covered in obsidian slime, his eyes staring back stoically at her even as he drowned.

Oh, God. She sat up in his big bed, glancing around wildly, even though she knew he wasn’t here.
Where was he?
She needed to find him, needed to place her hands on his chest and feel for herself that his heart still beat, that he was well.

She rose, hurriedly throwing on his banyan and lighting a candle from the embers still glowing on the hearth.

She looked first in her own room, a quick glance as she hurried past. The next place was the downstairs library. Perhaps he’d woken in the night and been unable to sleep? Perhaps he was even now dozing in a chair before the fireplace, that silly, stupid tasseled hat on his dear, dear head. She sobbed and realized that she’d broken into a near-panicked run.