Lord of Darkness

Page 43

She spent the carriage ride home burrowed into Godric’s shoulder, trying to inhale his familiar scent, trying to remember all that she had rather than all she had lost.
When they reached Saint House, Godric climbed out of the carriage and then turned around and helped her down, as solicitous as if she were an invalid. She murmured a protest, but he didn’t reply, simply tightening his arms about her as he led her in.
Megs heard Mrs. Crumb ask something as they passed her in the hallway and was glad when Sarah stopped to murmur to her. Godric hadn’t even hesitated. He mounted the stairs, keeping his right arm around her shoulders, and it was only when they made the upper floor that she remembered his wrist.
She looked anxiously up at him. “Dear Lord, Godric, I must’ve hurt your wrist when we were in the garden—”
“No,” he murmured as he led her into his bedroom. “Hush. It’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
A hot flush rose in her chest, sweeping over her neck and face, and then she was weeping, the tears scalding. There was no relief in these tears, though, no relief while Lord Kershaw lived.
She must’ve said something as she sobbed—or perhaps Godric knew instinctively what she felt.
He wrapped her in his arms as he gently let down her hair, and it wasn’t until her heaving breaths began to quiet that she heard what he was saying.
“He won’t get away, Meggie mine, I won’t let him. I promise on my soul that I’ll take him down. I promise, Meggie, I promise.”
His repetition soothed her hurt a little. Megs laid her cheek against his shoulder, limply letting him do as he wanted. He was drawing off her dress, unlacing her stays, freeing her from her clothing. When she was in only her chemise, he laid her gently on his bed and crossed to his dresser. She heard the splash of water and then he was back by her, a cool cloth pressed to her swollen cheeks.
It felt like a benediction, the touch of unconditional forgiveness, and she whispered without thinking. “I loved him.”
“I know,” he murmured in reply. “I know.”
She closed her eyes, her fingers pressing against her stomach, flattened because she was lying down. There was no sign, no manifestation of the baby, but she believed on faith alone.
“I can’t begin again,” she whispered, “not when he hasn’t been avenged. I can’t have this baby with this undone, and I can’t leave London.”
She opened her eyes to see that his eyes had widened and were fixed upon her hands where they lay kneading her stomach. Slowly, his gaze rose to hers, and it burned, but she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.
She hadn’t meant to tell him like this, but she couldn’t order her brain.
“I can’t leave London now,” she repeated.
“No,” he agreed. “Not now. Not yet.”
He got up and went to the dresser and she closed her eyes, drifting.
She felt the dip of the bed when he returned. The cloth was placed on her forehead and she murmured with pleasure. It felt so good, so right.
“Sleep now,” he said, and she could tell by his voice that he meant to leave her.
Her eyes popped open. “Stay with me.”
He looked away, his mouth tense. “I have business to attend to.”
What business? she wondered, but only said aloud, “Please.”
He didn’t answer, simply toed off his shoes and removed his coat. He took off his wig and laid it on his dresser, and then he lay down beside her and drew her into his arms.
She lay there, drifting, listening to his deep breaths. He’d not berated her for her outburst in the garden. Anyone else would’ve been ashamed of her—certainly disapproving. Yet Godric had treated her tenderly even when she’d fought him to get to the Earl of Kershaw. She didn’t deserve a man so patient, so good. She turned on her side, watching his profile as he lay on his back next to her. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. What was he thinking? What did he plan to do? Perhaps it didn’t matter right now. He’d agreed that she didn’t have to leave London right away, and for that she was grateful. She wanted to stay for Roger—but more importantly she wanted to stay for Godric.
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.
GODRIC 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.