D’Arque nodded.
“Perhaps he was bribed,” Reading murmured.
Godric leaned forward. “Had he been with Fraser-Burnsby long?”
“No.” D’Arque slowly shook his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Roger had hired him only the month before.”
All three men were silent, contemplating the obvious conclusion.
“Damn it!” d’Arque hissed low. “I spent months searching for Roger’s killer, but it never occurred to me that it might not be the Ghost of St. Giles.”
The viscount’s outburst seemed genuine enough. But then Godric had seen beggars weep real tears for the pain of their crippled legs—just before stealing a purse and running away.
“What about your friend Seymour?” he asked the viscount. “Wasn’t he killed in St. Giles as well?”
Reading started to say something, then closed his mouth.
D’Arque’s eyes narrowed. “What has that to do with Roger’s death?”
Godric shrugged, for he could not reveal what he knew of Seymour’s death. The viscount sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching the stage, though Godric doubted he saw anything. “We were all friends, Kershaw, Seymour, Roger, and I. Kershaw and Seymour helped me search for the Ghost of St. Giles before … before Seymour was killed in such an untimely manner.”
His eyelids flickered and Godric took note. He knew from Winter Makepeace that d’Arque had known about Seymour’s involvement in the lassie snatchers, had in fact helped cover up the true nature of Seymour’s death for the sake of his widow.
Makepeace seemed to think that d’Arque had not been involved with the illegal workshop and the lassie snatchers. Godric decided to reserve judgment. After all, if d’Arque had been the other partner in the workshop, it would’ve been smart of him to lie low for a bit, convince Makepeace that he had indeed cleared up the entire lassie snatcher evil.
And then when the coast was clear, he could start up operations again.
“Odd,” Godric said softly, “that two of four friends should be killed in St. Giles.”
D’Arque frowned as if considering. “Don’t think that I hadn’t thought of the matter before now, but that’s just it. There was no link between the killings.” He turned to meet Godric’s eyes. “None at all.”
The audience roared and rose to their feet, clapping. Godric’s gaze jerked to his wife, her head together with Lady Hero’s, whispering some feminine secret. The play was obviously over.
The viscount caught his arm.
Godric looked down at the hand on his sleeve.
D’Arque let go of his arm, his face darkening with something that might’ve been embarrassment. “I wish to continue this discussion.”
“Don’t worry.” Godric stood, watching as Megs turned and beamed at him, all glorious, vibrant life. Everything he was not. Everything worth protecting. “We will.”
Chapter Ten
“Hold on tight,” the Hellequin grunted as he guided the great black horse toward the far shore.
“Do you care for my welfare, then?” Faith leaned forward and asked in the Hellequin’s ear.
His eyes slid sideways as he gave her a sardonic glance. “’Twould not do for you to fall in the River of Sorrows.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “The waters would think you a suicide and then you, too, would spend the rest of eternity drowning.”
The great black horse lurched as it climbed out of the inky waters, and as it did so, Faith pushed Despair into the river. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Megs plucked nervously at the ties to her wrapper. She stood alone in her room—well, alone save for Her Grace and her three puppies, sleeping under her bed. She and Godric had returned home in near silence from Harte’s Folly. If she didn’t know better, she might think her husband as filled with trepidation over their belated wedding night as she.
But that was silly, wasn’t it? He was a man. Even if he’d initially turned her down because of the memory of his late wife, he still must, by his very nature as a male, take the marriage act more cavalierly than a woman. Why else would he suddenly change his mind over the matter?
Megs bit her lip, fearing that she might be lying to herself. She hadn’t seen Godric act cavalierly about anything since her arrival in London. He must have a reason—a deliberate reason—to acquiesce to her. Damnation! She should’ve questioned him more in the garden this afternoon instead of being so overwhelmed with excitement and joy that she’d all but lost the power of thought. She had the feeling that whatever his reasons, it was important that she understand them—understand him. After tonight he would be her husband in fact as well as in name. She owed him the courtesy of at least caring about his motives. She was determined not to feel guilt, though. He was her husband and this was the legal—and natural—consequence of marriage.
Even if he’d been coerced into the marriage in the first place.
She heaved a sigh and glanced again at the pink china clock on her dressing table. It was well past midnight—and nearly an hour since they’d returned home. Had he forgotten?
Had he fallen asleep?
Megs tiptoed toward the door that connected her room to Godric’s. If he’d fallen asleep, she’d just have to wake him up again, damn it.
The door opened abruptly and Megs stopped in her tracks, blinking.
For a moment Godric looked equally startled at finding her just inside the door. He wore a banyan, beneath which she could see his nightshirt and those ridiculous embroidered slippers.
Megs stifled a horrible, overwhelming urge to giggle.
Godric shut the door behind him. “I thought …” He stopped and his brow wrinkled before he began again. “That is, I’d like to talk to you prior to …” He cleared his throat, a nearly subaudible sound like the distant rumble of thunder. “Come.”
He held out his hand, his long fingers gracefully curved. Megs gulped. He hadn’t changed his mind, had he?
“Megs.” His eyes were clear and calm and his entire attention was focused on her.
She remembered the feel of his mouth, hot and demanding, on her nipple. Her face flamed and she placed her hand in his.
He tugged her gently, pulling her down to the chairs by the door.
She sat, her hands primly tucked together in her lap, and looked at him.
“If I do this …”
She frowned, fingers flexing on her skirts.
“When we do this,” he corrected himself, “I want a promise from you.”
“Anything,” she said, quite recklessly.
His face was grave and serious, but she found herself so distracted by the long sweep of his dark eyelashes that for a moment she didn’t hear his words. “Once you know you’re with child, I’d like you to leave London. Return to Laurelwood Manor and live there.”
Her mouth dropped open, and it was stupid really—she was using him as a … a stud, but she was unaccountably wounded. “You want me gone?”
“I want you safe.”
“Why am I safer at Laurelwood?” Her eyes narrowed as soon as she said the words, for she understood all at once. “You don’t want me finding Roger’s murderer.”
A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw. “No.”
She straightened, glaring. “You can’t make me stop.”
His lips thinned. “Agreed. But I can certainly withhold myself from your bed if you refuse my terms.”
A baby or justice for Roger … she didn’t want to make that choice. She wanted—needed—both.
Megs stood abruptly, glancing wildly about the bedroom, trying to think how she could make him see reason. Godric was a man of logic, but she knew he felt deeply as well. His love for his first wife was testament to that. She looked back at him. “If it had been your Clara, would you give up until you’d found her murderer?”
His mouth flattened. “Of course not, but I am a man—”
“And I am a woman.” She spread
her arms wide, her fingers grasping to make her emotions concrete so he would understand. “Don’t paint my love any less than yours because of my sex. I loved Roger with all of my heart. When he died, I thought I would die with him. I have the right to find his murderer. To make sure he is avenged. I’ll not stop until that mission is accomplished. Please do not try and dissuade me, for on this subject I will remain adamant.”
He looked at her, silent for so long that she feared he would simply leave her. At last he inhaled. “Very well. While you remain in London—while we try to make a baby between us—you will continue your search for Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “But?”
“But the minute you know you carry a child—my child—you will leave, whether or not you have found the murderer.”
She bit her lip, thinking. It wasn’t everything she wanted, but she was well aware that he could’ve simply refused her outright. It was a compromise.
She’d just have to work harder at finding Roger’s murderer.
Megs lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
A corner of his mouth twitched upward as he took her hand in his and shook it solemnly. “Will you at least permit me to help you in your search? To go into St. Giles in your stead?”
She inhaled, suddenly feeling shaky. “Of course.”
He inclined his head gravely, still holding her hand in a firm grip. “Very well, then. I shall help you to find Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer whilst you remain in London. I shall bed you every night. And you shall leave this house and London for the safety of my country estate when I get you with child. Fair?”
“Fair.”
“But, Megs …”
“Hmm?” She’d become somewhat distracted, ever since he’d used the words bed and every night.
“I retain the right to revisit the discussion about your lover’s murderer,” he said softly. Firmly. “We may yet find another way more amenable to us both.”
She should argue, for he wasn’t exactly playing properly—they’d already shook on the terms. But his hand was warm and strong, his long, elegant fingers wrapped around her own, and the bed was right there.
She’d been waiting for this since she’d come to London.
So she nodded jerkily. “Very well, if you insist.”
“I do,” he whispered, and stood as he pulled her up in front of him.
She was too close suddenly, staring at the pulse that beat at the side of his throat. She swallowed, opening her mouth—
And he bent his head and kissed her. It wasn’t like the kiss in St. Giles. That had been wild and angry and passionate. This was a soft kiss, nearly chaste, as if he questioned with his lips: Is this what you want? Am I who you want? For a moment her thoughts stuttered. He wasn’t who she wanted. She wanted Roger—he was the love of her life. The one to whom she’d given her virginity in happy bliss. The one she’d nearly died mourning for.
But Godric’s lips were slow. Persuasive. Moving over hers almost curiously, as if she were a new, unknown creature. Something foreign and precious. His hands rose, drifting over her arms, skimming her shoulders, slipping up her neck to cradle her face as he angled his head, licking along her bottom lip. She gasped, a soft parting of her mouth, and he slid in, not intrusively, but almost playfully, touching her teeth, meeting her tongue in sweet greeting. It was suddenly too much.
She pulled back, staring wide-eyed at him, her chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve.
“What is it?” His voice was low, raspy.
She swallowed. “Nothing. It’s just …” She bit her lip. “Do we have to kiss?”
His eyebrows winged up his forehead. “Not if you don’t like it.”
“It’s not …” She shook her head, unable to find the words. She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t want to think about him while they did this. That she just wanted him to be a male body, not Godric the man.
His face had closed now, though, looking cold and nearly remote. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“No,” she said shakily. “I mean …”
She inhaled, desperately trying to find equilibrium. She’d destroyed something just now, she could feel it, but if she let him walk through that door again, they might never do this.
She opened her eyes, looking at him imploringly. “Please. I want this now.”
He watched her a moment more, his eyes unreadable, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
He indicated the bed and she drew off her wrapper self-consciously before climbing in. She shivered as her bare legs slid along cold sheets.
Godric took off his banyan and slippers, standing in his nightshirt as he looked at her consideringly. “Would you like me to snuff the candles?”
She nodded gratefully. “Yes, please.”
He didn’t say anything as he snuffed the candelabra on the dresser and the one by the bed. The fire had already been banked for the night and the dull glow of the embers didn’t give much light. Megs listened as Godric lifted the covers of her bed, felt the dip as his weight settled beside her.
She started to tense, and then she felt his touch, gentle but sure. The time to change her mind was past.
Megs tried to think of Roger, to summon his dear face to the front of her brain, but Godric was running his hand down her side, distracting her, making Roger vanish like a reflection in a pond disturbed. Godric leaned up on one elbow, his bulk a dark shape above her. It occurred to her that if it were any other man, she might fear him now.
But this was Godric.
She felt his breath on her face as he leaned closer, his hand on her hip. He paused to caress her through the fine lawn of her chemise; then he trailed his fingers down her legs, slowly, carefully. This lovemaking was sweet and gentle—and it shouldn’t have aroused her.
Her breath was coming too fast. Perhaps she was a wanton, she thought rather wildly. Perhaps having tasted of fleshly delights, she’d become addicted without even knowing it, so that now even a near-impersonal touch had lit a forgotten fuse within her.
He didn’t seem particularly affected. His breaths were even and calm. He’d reached the hem of her chemise now and pulled it upward, baring her knees, her thighs, her feminine triangle. He laid the skirt of her chemise on her stomach, quite circumspectly, and then his hand moved downward, back to her knee, naked now. He rested his hand there, warm and large, and she bit her lip to keep from making any noise.
His breath wasn’t calm anymore—thank goodness for that. He traced lacy patterns on the inside of her knee with just his fingertips. Slowly, so slowly, working his way toward the juncture of her thighs. She parted her legs, offering him more room, inviting those fingers closer to her center, but he kept away, trailing along the crease that separated her leg from her belly.
He bent toward her then, and she had the idea that he meant to kiss her before he remembered and caught himself. Now she wanted to pull him close. To seal her lips to his and tell him that she’d been mistaken earlier. That she did want him to kiss her.
But that would let in thoughts, emotions, that she didn’t want to consider right now. This act was so she could have a baby. That and only that.
His fingers were stroking over her pubic hair, brushing lightly, drawing closer to the folds below. She tilted her head away, staring at the fireplace, trying to keep her equilibrium. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth, the beating heart attached to that seeking hand, but she’d already decided to make this impersonal. It wouldn’t do to change her mind now when she wasn’t thinking clearly.
And then he touched her there and all thought fled her mind. His fingers slid into her intimate recesses, where only she and Roger had ever been, and she should’ve felt invaded, but God help her she didn’t.
She didn’t.
The sob welled within her, unstoppable, unstiflable. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, afraid to make a sound and break apart this intimacy.
He brushed agains
t that small bit of flesh and she jerked as if he’d stabbed her. She wanted … more. She wanted to grind herself against him, wanted to moan, loud and free, wanted to take his hand and make him touch her more firmly. But she did none of those things, for she was a lady who had asked of him an impossible price and if he was gentleman enough to accede to her wishes, the least she could do was bear it with composure.
Even if it might kill her.
He continued with those light, relentless brushes, and she felt herself begin to swell. To become engorged with a kind of liquid pleasure, heating, pulsing in her loins. She’d felt this before, knew what it led to.
She grabbed his wrist and the sound that emerged from her throat was perilously near a whimper.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. If you just let me—”
“No,” she gasped. “Please, no.”
“Megs,” he sighed, his voice troubled.
She couldn’t answer, could only tug on his wrist, mutely indicating what she needed.
He took pity on her, rolling atop her.
She let go of him then, spreading her legs to let his hips slide between them, a firm weight. He bunched up his nightshirt and then she felt the heat of his bare legs, the soft scrape of his body hair. So intimate. So close. She felt thin, cold metal fall between her breasts, some type of pendant he must wear on that chain about his neck. She wondered, absently, what it was—and then all thought fled her mind.
The head of his penis probed her entrance.
She grit her teeth, tensing uncontrollably.
He made a soothing sound and slid through her folds, wetting himself. Teasing her.
She wanted to tell him to just put it in her, damn it. Do the thing and get it over with so she might regain her balance. But he took his time, gliding against her, circling. She could hear the small, wet sounds, feel the spark every time he pressed her there. By the time he finally put the blunt tip in and began to push, she was trembling, trying to keep herself from falling off that ledge. He shoved into her agonizingly slowly. A subtle insertion and retreat, each time filling her a little more with his length. He was as solicitous as if she were a virgin.
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