“I’ll be right there,” I called, hoping to spare him.
His eyes widened at the sight of me, and the last vestiges of color drained from his face. Ignoring my words, he ran down the final steps and dropped to my side.
“My dear?” he asked, voice shaking. He clasped my hand in one of his, while stroking my cheek with the fingers of the other. “Are you all right? We’ll call a doctor for you; I swear, you’ll be fine, you’ll see—”
“Dear God, man, get ahold of yourself!” Christine snapped. “You may not care for your reputation, but think of Whyborne’s!”
Griffin shot her a furious look, and for a moment it seemed they might end the evening with a brawl. “I’m fine,” I said hastily, even though my arm stung abominably. “It’s just a scratch, Griffin, truly.”
His green eyes shifted to me, searching for the truth of my words. Whatever he saw must have comforted him, because he nodded and let go of my hand. “I…yes. Let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”
There came the sound of many feet on the stairs, accompanied by startled exclamations concerning the existence of the hidden door and tunnels. Griffin rose to his feet, giving my good shoulder a quick squeeze. Striding to the bottom of the stair, he met the astonished Mr. Mathison and Dr. Hart, at the head of a large contingent of guards, trustees, and other men who had decided to investigate.
“Is there a doctor?” he called. “Dr. Whyborne has been shot!”
Christine let out a snort. “Men. Always so damned dramatic,” she muttered, as the crowd descended on us.
~ * ~
The next few hours passed in something of a blur.
I was rushed upstairs, despite my protests, as if I’d been gravely injured. Three of the trustees were medical doctors; all insisted on examining my wound, to the detriment of my coat, shirt, and dignity.
The wound itself was quite shallow. The bullet had merely grazed me, removing a divot of flesh just deep enough to bleed profusely. I was subjected to cleaning with alcohol, which stung rather more than the bullet itself. Then I had to be bandaged, and offered laudanum, which I refused. The entire time, Dr. Hart hovered around rather alarmingly, as if worried I might suddenly expire. Mr. Mathison pumped my good hand with gusto, blathering something about loyalty and the museum, to which I could only nod and smile rather fixedly. Then they both went into a long diatribe about what a disaster this was for the Ladysmith, reinforcing one another’s list of woes, until finally one of the doctors forced them out of the small side room in which we’d taken refuge.
Once they left, Addison appeared. “Are you all right, my boy?” he asked, taking my hand in his.
“Percival! Where is Leander? Where’s my son?”
…A hand let go, and water closed over…
I focused relentlessly on the here-and-now. “I’m quite fine,” I reassured him. “I have three doctors, and none of them have tried to amputate yet.”
A small smile flickered around his lips. “I’m glad you can face this with a sense of humor.”
“I know it’s a terrible embarrassment to the museum,” I said carefully. It was a blow to far more, but there was no reason to trouble him. “I don’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
“I know. I know.” He hesitated, and for a moment his watery blue eyes fixed on mine, as if he strove to impart some message. Then he sighed and patted my hand. “Things will work out in the end, though, Percival. You must believe it.”
I hadn’t believed anything of the sort once I was old enough to leave the nursery, but I nodded anyway. “Of course, Uncle Addy.”
He left, and I was extremely glad to see Griffin and Christine were my only other visitors. One of the doctors secured the final layer of gauze and snipped it off with a pair of sharp scissors.
“There you go,” he said briskly. “Now, is your wife here? Tell her to change the dressing in the morning and make sure there’s no sign of infection.”
I glanced down. “I, er, no. I’m a bachelor.”
“I’ll look after him,” Griffin said with perfect ease, as if he were simply a friend interested in my wellbeing. “I have a spare room. Whyborne can stay with me tonight, and I’ll keep an eye out for fever.”
The doctor nodded. “Good, good. I don’t expect any trouble, but one can never be too careful, yes?”
He left, taking his kit with him. I considered asking Griffin how close an eye he intended to keep on me, but Christine was there, and I found I couldn’t manage it. “Can we leave?” I asked instead.
It came out rather more plaintively than I intended. Griffin arched a brow at me. “Are you sure? You’re the hero of the hour. The newspapermen will want an interview.”
I turned scarlet and looked down. “I-I know I failed, but…”
“Oh no, Griffin is quite serious,” Christine said. When had they decided to use each other’s first names? “You were the only one to realize what was going on and actually give pursuit, despite the ‘small army’ Mathison hired.”
“But I didn’t—”
“You tried,” Griffin said. “And you came a great deal closer to foiling them than the rest of us.” His fingers brushed my cheek lightly, before withdrawing. “Come. You look exhausted.”
It had been a trying evening, to say the least. I nodded mutely and followed him out. The gas was back on, and every light in the grand foyer burned, perhaps to reassure everyone order had been restored. Most of the attendees had left already; those who remained were either museum staff or reporters. Mr. Rockwell lined up the hired guards, roaring imprecations at them. Christine took my good arm and glared daggers at anyone who tried to approach us.
The air outside revived me somewhat, although it also heightened the pain in my arm. A hired cab hurried to retrieve us; Griffin gave the driver Christine’s address, then his.
“Well,” Christine said, when the cab had pulled away from the curb and we were more or less alone for the first time, “that was a damned mess.”
“It was my fault,” I said miserably. “I realized what Blackbyrne was after, but not until it was too late.”
Griffin sat directly across from me, his gaze fixed on my face, as if nothing else in the world mattered at the moment. “You didn’t fail. I should have questioned you more closely about the conversation with Blackbyrne. You were the only one who acted quickly enough to even come close to catching them.”
“And after the Brotherhood resurrected Blackbyrne, the mummy wasn’t a bad guess,” Christine put in. At least she’d managed to keep my blood off her dress, although her underskirt would have to be replaced.
“Do you know what was on the scroll they took?” Griffin asked.
“No,” I admitted. “Nyarlathotep was mentioned, though.”
“Blast,” Griffin said, his jaw tightening.
I hunched into my overcoat. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault, Whyborne,” Christine said, staring out the window at the passing street lamps. “It isn’t any of our faults.”
Perhaps she was right. But if so, it was a cold comfort indeed.
Chapter 20
We let Christine off in front of the boarding house in which she resided. Griffin offered to see her to the door and received a pointed glare in return.
Once she was gone and we were alone in the dim interior of the cab, he moved closer and took my hand. We rode in silence until the carriage pulled up in front of Griffin’s house. Saul waited for us on the porch, as usual. It was good to be home after a trying evening.
Except of course this wasn’t my home. Even if it had begun to feel like it.
Griffin locked the door behind us, before turning to me. “Are you truly all right, my dear?” he asked. His hands brushed my forearms lightly, as if he wanted to reassure himself but half-feared to touch me.
“I’m perfectly fine. The wound aches a bit, but nothing more.”
He didn’t look entirely sure he believed me, but took my hand and led me up the stair. I hoped his bedroom was our
destination, but instead he stopped in the study. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“Please.” I walked to the fire and stoked it absently.
“I’ll get the fire. You should rest.”
“I’m fine, Griffin. I’m not even using my injured arm.”
Since there was no sensible answer, Griffin handed me the measure of brandy he had poured in exchange for the poker. I suppressed a sigh and took a large swallow of the alcohol. Since I’d never had the chance to eat dinner from the buffet, its warmth spread quickly through my veins.
Griffin finished with the fire and went to pour himself a drink as well. I stared down at the flames, remembering the first time I had stood here. Remembering, also, the way Blackbyrne had come up behind me, the feel of his nails against my spine and the scent of decay on his breath.
I shivered. “Are you cold?” Griffin asked.
“No. Just thinking about Blackbyrne.”
Griffin slid his arms around my waist. “You’re positive it was him?”
“Yes. It was him in the Draakenwood as well.”
“And he approached you? Spoke to you?”
“I…” Surely he wouldn’t be jealous, would he? There was no reason. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, but it seemed as though he meant to seduce me.”
Griffin’s fingers tightened on my hips, pulling me back against him. “Did he?” There was an odd, low note to his voice I couldn’t identify.
“I know it sounds mad, but yes. Perhaps I should have lingered and tried to learn more.”
“No,” Griffin growled, and nipped at the back of my neck while pressing his erection against my buttocks. At least he was no longer treating me like a fragile vase due to my injury, although his reaction made little sense.
“No?” I echoed. “If I’m not mad to even think it, if he truly was interested, perhaps I could have prolonged our interview and learned more—”
He spun me around and pressed a kiss to my lips: possessive and heated, almost bruising in its intensity. “No,” he repeated in between kisses. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone else’s hands on you.”
His unexpected words sent my blood racing. Did he mean it? We hadn’t discussed our relationship, but it sounded as if he wished it to be something more than a few casual encounters.
God, please let him want that.
I pulled away to look into his eyes. They were dark with lust; his lips parted and swollen from our kisses, his expression one of such intense desire I’d do anything he asked just to keep it focused on me.
“Tell me what you want,” I begged.
Griffin ground his erection against my hip. “Get in the bedroom. Now.”
I was more than happy to comply. We left a trail of shed clothing behind us on the way, eager to find skin. My shirt was already ruined; I didn’t object when Griffin ripped it off in a shower of buttons, his mouth fastening on one nipple, then the other, before trailing down my belly in a series of sharp nips and hard sucks.
I tried to give back the same in kind, but he shoved me onto my back in the bed, climbing on top and pinning my good arm with his hand. I might have been able to struggle free, but I gave only a token resistance. The sight of him above me, wild with desire, the feel of his stiff cock against mine, made my head spin.
He let out a soft growl and bit my neck, right at the base where it joined the shoulder. I yelped and bucked against him, stiff and ready. Instead of rubbing against me as I expected, he pulled back. His eyes were half-hooded, gleaming as they watched me. “Get on your knees.”
I swallowed hard and complied. I’d never seen this possessive side of him before, never imagined it would stiffen me until my cock was hard as a rail spike, aching to be driven.
“Face the other way. Legs spread and hands on the headboard.”
I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs, but my entire body craved his touch as I turned my vulnerable backside to him.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, the mattress flexing as he leaned over to rummage in the nightstand. A moment later, he took out a jar of petroleum jelly. Had he kept it there just in case?
I bit my lip. Would I enjoy this? Would it hurt? Would it change things between us, somehow?
Griffin settled behind me again. His hands traced my back, then suddenly pulled me tight against his chest, his teeth grazing the nape of my neck. I whimpered incoherently and pressed against him.
“Ival,” he whispered into my ear, low and intimate. He pulled away for a moment; when he returned, it was to slip one hand between my legs. One slick finger pressed against my fundament. “Say you’re mine.”
It was clear what he was really asking. His finger circled the puckered flesh, pressing lightly and sending sparks of pleasure straight into my cock. “I-I’m yours,” I gasped.
“Good,” he murmured, and pushed his finger inside.
The sensation mixed the strange and familiar, and an involuntary gasp escaped me. He worked me slowly, sliding his finger in and out, letting me grow accustomed, and I relaxed. Then he discovered a certain spot and pressed. I moaned, my entire body quivering in response.
His breath caressed my neck, and his free hand tugged hard on my nipple, adding yet another dimension to the sensations devouring me. He paused to add more lubricant, but resumed with two fingers instead of one. I gasped at the additional stretching, but pushed back helplessly, wanting more.
“I’m going to take you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to bugger you until you don’t know anything but my cock up your ass, until that clever tongue of yours can’t shape any word but my name.”
My member was swollen to bursting, and I whimpered, beyond caring about anything except how badly I needed him.
“Ask for it,” he whispered huskily, and, oh God, three fingers now, and I couldn’t possibly take much more and I didn’t care. “Beg me to fuck you.”
My face flamed in reflexive embarrassment, despite the fact he held me in his arms, fingers buried in me. “Griffin, please!”
“Please what?”
“F-fuck me!”
He nipped me again at the base of my neck, then withdrew for a moment. I glanced back; he slicked his cock generously, the velvety skin glistening in the candlelight. Catching me watching, he grinned and stroked his length deliberately. “Want to see what’s going to be splitting you open?”
“Unh,” I said, because there were no words left in my brain.
He kissed the base of my spine, before settling one hand lightly on my hip. The broad head of his member pressed against my hole, and I gulped for breath past the bands threatening to tighten my throat.
“Ival,” he groaned; the ends of his hair brushed the skin of my back. Then he pushed into me.
I moaned and pressed back at the same time. God, he felt twice the size I knew him to be, the thick head of his cock breaching me, stretching me to limit even though he’d prepared me well. Then suddenly the head was inside me, and he made a small sound of such pleasure I almost lost all semblance of control.
“Are you all right?” he asked; his voice was thick with lust. “I’ll stop if—”
“Damn it, Griffin, fuck me,” I growled.
He moaned, a sound of pure ecstasy, and pressed in slow and steady. It burned a little, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but this: his body in mine, opening me, filling me, pressing against the spot which sent a blinding shock of pleasure straight into my cock.
I rocked back against him; our bodies collided again and again. I wanted this; I craved it; I couldn’t get enough of it. I cried out wordlessly every time he thrust, and his fingers tightened on my hips, hard enough to bruise.
“Say you’re mine,” he gasped; he sounded close to release. “Are you, Ival? Are you mine?”
I bit the pillow in blind lust. “God, Griffin, yes, yours, no one else’s, just yours, please.” I didn’t even know what I begged for, except more. More everything: more of him, more of his cock, more of his hands
on me, more of his heart.
“My dear, yes, yes—”
His voice roughened with urgency, and his thrusts took on a different tempo. “Do it,” I groaned. “Take me; take me; make me yours—”
A hoarse cry tore its way out of him; he jerked into me hard, then went still, his cock twitching inside me. I dropped my hand to my own, hyper-sensitized length, and a single tug was enough to make my entire body clench as I spent myself onto the bedding. Griffin let out a startled sound of pleasure, pushing hard against my bottom, my contractions milking a final sigh out of him.
I collapsed facedown into the bedding, my arms limp as cooked noodles. Griffin pressed himself against me for a moment, then gently pulled free. The sound of his footsteps padding to the washbasin barely penetrated the sated haze cocooning me. A few moments later, he returned to the bed. “Spread your legs, my dear,” he said gently.
“Again?” I asked, and got a soft chuckle. The washcloth was damnably cold, but there was something fine about being attended to.
When he crawled back into bed, I had just enough energy to roll onto my back. Griffin tucked his head against my shoulder, and we held each other in sleepy contentment.
“Are you all right?” he murmured, ever the gentleman.
I smiled. “Better than all right, I think.”
“And your arm?”
“A bit achy, but I assure you I didn’t notice it at the time.”
He was silent a long moment; then his arm tightened across my chest. “When I saw you injured…”
The words trailed off into nothing.
I hesitated, but it was night, and words spoken in the dark can always be forgotten come the dawn. “You came into the underground tunnels after me. Thank you.”
“If something had happened to you, I would never have forgiven myself,” he admitted softly, as if afraid someone might overhear.
“But it didn’t.” I pressed my lips against his forehead.
“Not this time.”
“Shh.” I wrapped my good arm around him, wanting closer contact, and he obliged. “Don’t dwell on such things. We’re here, now, together. That’s what matters.”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 18