Lord of Darkness (39 page)

He wasn’t in the library.

She sagged against the door, pressing the back of her hand to her weeping mouth.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here.

She tried his study last because hope died hard and she had to see for herself before she acknowledged what she already knew.

The study was quiet, the door to his hidden closet ajar. She could see that his Ghost costume was gone and she knew,
knew
what she had done. Megs pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a wail of horror.

She’d abandoned a living man for a dead one.

Godric felt his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. His left arm ached, deep and compelling, and his hand shook just a little as he pressed the short sword to Kershaw’s vulnerable armpit. He stared at Trevillion and wanted to hiss. Wanted to spit and howl. He was fated to be taken tonight, it seemed, but he would drag Kershaw with him, clasping him to his bloody bosom as he went down. Something flickered in Trevillion’s eyes, perhaps a premonition, as Godric’s muscles tensed, preparing to
shove the sword tip through skin and muscle, tendon and bone.

“Nooooo!” It was Alf’s voice, hoarse and loud. The girl wrenched herself away from her stunned guard, running to Godric. “You can’t take the Ghost, you soddin’ redcoats. This toff steals little girls. If’n you—”

But her words were cut off as Kershaw took advantage of the confusion. He grabbed Alf’s hair, bending back her head, exposing a throat much too thin and tender and placed the blade of his sword against it.

Godric lunged, sinking his short sword into Kershaw, pushing until the hilt hit his coat.

Kershaw wheezed.

Alf screamed, high and feminine.

Godric twisted the blade, staring fiercely into Kershaw’s muddy eyes as they dimmed and he dropped his sword. He yanked the bloody short sword from the body and Kershaw’s corpse fell gracelessly to the cobblestones.

“Hold your fire!” Trevillion screamed. “Hold your blasted fire!”

For a moment everyone froze, the only sound the nervous stomping of the horses and the whimpering of the two girls.

One of the guards took off at a run.

Trevillion nodded in his direction and a mounted man cantered after him.

“Arrest them all,” Trevillion growled, dismounting, “save for the Ghost. He’s mine.”

He unsheathed his sword.

Godric backed a step. He had no particular urge to kill the dragoon captain—the soldier was only doing his job, after all.

Captain
Trevillion glared at the mounted dragoons behind Godric. “Did you not hear me, Stockard? I
said
the Ghost is mine.”

The soldiers trotted to the side, leaving Godric and Trevillion alone in an open space. Godric gripped his sword, feeling the hilt under his sweaty palm. The night was thick with the stink of blood and horses and the natural miasma of St. Giles.

Trevillion moved forward slowly, forcing Godric back. He lunged, but his attack was oddly clumsy. Perhaps the dragoon hadn’t much practice with his sword. Trevillion jabbed again and Godric easily knocked his sword aside, frowning now, trying to understand what the other man was doing. Was he herding him into a corner? But the space behind him was open.

Trevillion thrust again, this time engaging Godric a little more skillfully, still pushing him back because Godric really didn’t want this fight.

Their swords locked, each man straining into the other, sweat running down Godric’s back, and then Trevillion rolled his eyes and leaned close. “Run, you idiot.”

Godric realized that they’d moved several yards away from the other dragoons, close to the crossroads where a dark alley led.

Trevillion shoved hard against him.

Godric spun and fled, expecting any minute to feel a bullet hit his back or the thunder of hooves trampling him down.

They never came. Instead, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye as Alf scaled a tenement wall as nimbly as a monkey while the dragoons shouted helplessly below.

He ran flat out, his boots ringing on the cobblestones. He ran until the blood roared in his veins, until the breath
sobbed in his lungs. He ran until the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children came into sight, a familiar carriage at the end of the lane and a cloaked female figure just about to mount the steps.

He stopped, hands propped on knees, his chest heaving, and craned his neck to stare as the woman turned around.

The hood of her velvet cloak was pushed back, glossy, dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. Those shoulders were square, a pistol gripped firmly in her right hand, and determination shone in her pretty eyes.

Godric caught his breath in admiration as he straightened.

Megs’s chin kicked up. “No need to thank me.”

He blinked. “What?”

She gestured behind her. “I brought the carriage.” Her face was composed, but he could see the tremble of her lips as she said gently, “Believe it or not, Ghosts have been known to be accosted by dragoons in this very spot.”

His heart had slowed when he’d stopped running, but now it seemed to speed again as he recognized her words. She’d come to rescue him, his brave Meggie. No one had ever done such a thing for him before.

He was aware, suddenly, of the chill condensing clammily on his skin, the smell of damp cobblestones, of the very air flowing in and out of his lungs.

But most of all he was aware of the woman, this woman,
his
woman, standing so proudly, waiting patiently for him, only him.

He walked toward her and knew with every fiber of his being that he walked to life itself.

M
EGS’S VISION BEGAN
to blur as Godric, dear, brave,
reckless
Godric, walked toward her. She’d held herself rigidly
composed as she’d woken servants and found her pistols, as she’d waited for the horses to be harnessed and sent for a doctor, as she’d given hurried instructions to Mrs. Crumb, Moulder, and Mrs. St. John, as she’d ridden over in the carriage and tried not to imagine finding him already dead. She’d been concise, authoritative, and focused, but now she’d found him and he was alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

She didn’t even know how they made it inside the carriage, for she’d begun to shake, and once inside she simply let go and sobbed. Great, heaving, sloppy tears that held all the pain and fear she’d held back for the last several hours. He wrapped his arms around her and she gripped him tight because there was simply no way she was ever going to let him go again.

After a bit, she quieted enough to hear him murmuring as they rocked through the London night, “Hush, Meggie mine, hush. It’s all right.”

But his words only brought a new wave of grief. She squeezed her fingers into his shoulders until she knew she must be hurting him, but she couldn’t let go.

“No.” She shook her head against him. “It’s
not
right. You left.”

She felt his palm against her cheek, pressing as if he was trying to see her face, but she wouldn’t move.

“What’s not right, Megs? Why are you so upset?”

“Because I found you in your Ghost costume in St. Giles. You went after Lord Kershaw, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, and even without seeing his eyes, she heard the hesitation in his voice.

“How could you, Godric?” Her left hand curled into the back of his neck, her nails gently scraping against
the short hairs there. “What if you’d succeeded in finding him? What if you never returned? I couldn’t bear it if—”

“I did find him,” he broke into her half-hysterical words. “He’s dead, Megs.”

She did draw back at that, staring in horror at him, and moaned. “Oh, no!”

He frowned, looking very confused. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then finally opened it again to ask cautiously, “I thought you wanted him dead in revenge for the murder of Roger Fraser-Burnsby?”

“Not at the risk of you being hurt or killed!” she nearly shouted.

He blinked. “I’m sorry … what?”

“I wasn’t thinking properly earlier. I should’ve made it clear that you mean more to me than revenging myself on the earl. I should’ve told you that it didn’t matter anymore—which wouldn’t have been strictly true, but really, Godric, it would’ve been better than you going off to get killed without even a
word
to me. If you’d gotten yourself killed tonight, I would’ve never, ever forgiven you and—”

She gave up at that point because he was looking even more bemused and obviously she hadn’t communicated her main point.

So she simply thrust both hands into his short hair and yanked his head down to kiss him.

Ah, there.
The tightness of her chest relaxed a bit at the touch of his lips. He might not understand her words, but he was enthusiastic about her kiss, immediately opening her mouth farther and thrusting his tongue in. She hummed contentedly, stroking through his shorn hair, caressing the rim of his ear. He shuddered a bit and she
wondered idly if his ears were particularly sensitive. If so—

He pulled back, staring at her in the dim carriage, his brows still knit. “Megs?”

Oh, right. She still hadn’t told him. Well, it was his own fault; his mouth was simply delicious.

“I love you,” she said, speaking clearly so that there might be no confusion. “I love you utterly and completely. I love your elegant hands and the way you smile with only one side of your mouth—when you smile at all—and I love how grave your eyes are. I love that you let me invade your house with nearly my entire family and yours, and never even turned a hair. I love that you made love to me when I asked you, purely for politeness’ sake, and I love that you got mad at me later and made me make love to
you
. I love that you let Her Grace and her puppies construct a nest out of your shirts in your dressing room. I love that you’ve spent years selflessly saving people in St. Giles—although I want you to stop
right now
. I love that you killed a man for me, even if I’m still mad at you about it. I love that you saved my letters before we even knew each other well, and I love the curt, overly serious letters you wrote to me in return.”

She looked at him very seriously.

“I love you, Godric St. John, and now I’m breaking my word. I will not leave you. You may either come with me to Laurelwood or I’ll stay here with you in your musty old house in London and drive you mad with all my talking and relatives and … and exotic sexual positions until you break down and love me back, for I’m warning you that I’m not giving up until you love me and we’re a happy family with dozens of children.”

She
paused at that point because she’d run out of breath and looked at him.

His face had gone still and for a moment her heart sank and she had to fortify herself for a battle.

But then his mouth quirked
like that
and he said, “Exotic sexual positions?”

And she knew even before he said anything else that it was all going to be fine—more than fine. It was going to be
wonderful
.

Still she listened attentively when he said, “Much as I’d like you to convince me to fall in love with you by the use of exotic sexual positions, you don’t need to. I’ve loved you, Meggie mine, since you sent that second letter.”

He might’ve said more, but she had to interrupt him at that point to kiss him again.

Long moments later she drew back to frown as sternly as she could at him. “No more Ghost.”

“No more Ghost,” he agreed docilely, his hands busily shoving the velvet cloak off her shoulders. He laid his open mouth against her bare shoulder and she shivered, gasping.

“I have a confession to make,” he whispered in her ear.

She just barely managed to open her eyes. “Yes?”

His eyes were dark and laughing. “I didn’t agree to bed you for politeness’ sake.”

He bent back to her shoulder, and after that there was no more conversation, which was just as well.

She had other matters to concentrate on.

F
OUR WEEKS LATER
…

Godric watched as a small bird with a bright orange breast hopped along a branch and disappeared into a hole in the
apple tree. In all his years of living at Saint House, he’d never seen a robin here … but that was before his Meggie came to live with him.

“I told you that apple tree wasn’t dead.”

He turned at the sound of her voice. She was wearing bright pink and apple green this morning and looked like the very embodiment of spring as she picked her way down the gravel path.