Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(15)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Megs sat and could only watch Godric as he read. The candle beside him sent a flickering light across his face, catching on high cheekbones and the hint of a dark beard along his jaw and upper lip. His eyes were downturned as he read, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his face. He seemed younger somehow, despite his habitual gray wig and the half-moon spectacles he used to read. While the thought should’ve reassured her, it only added to Megs’s internal agitation.

He glanced up then, his eyes dark and hidden. She tried to smile, tried to look back at him alluringly, but her lips trembled imperceptibly. His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there, his face brooding. She caught her breath. She did not know this man. Not really.

At last the party adjourned for the night and Megs nearly fled up the stairs. Daniels was waiting in her room and helped her to undress and don her usual chemise for bed. Megs gazed at herself in the mirror as Daniels brushed out her hair and wished belatedly that she’d thought to buy a new chemise. Something in silk, perhaps. Something she could seduce a husband in. The one she wore wasn’t old, but it was rather ordinary white lawn with only a bit of embroidery about the yoke.

“Thank you, Daniels,” she said when Daniels had already brushed her hair for twice as long as she normally did.

The maid curtsied and retired.

Megs stood and faced the communal door to her husband’s room. No more nerves, she chided herself. No more prevarications, no excuses, no dawdling. She clutched the doorknob and opened the door wide.

Only to find the room empty.

“AFTER HIM, MEN!”

The deep growl of the dragoon captain echoed off the buildings as Godric swore and darted into a narrow alley, running flat out. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the night in St. Giles. He’d hoped to question an old acquaintance about the lassie snatchers. Instead, almost the moment he’d stepped foot in St. Giles, he’d had the misfortune to run into the dragoons—and their near-maniacal commander.

The alley let out into a series of courtyards, but he didn’t doubt the dragoons were circling to cut him off. Godric ducked into a well in the side of a building made by steps giving access to a basement.

Footsteps trotted up the alley.

Godric flattened himself against the near wall and prayed.

“We’ll get the bastard tonight if God is on our side,” came the voice of Captain James Trevillion from just above.

Godric rolled his eyes. The captain and his dragoons had been sent into St. Giles three years ago to quell the sale of gin and capture the Ghost of St. Giles. They’d achieved neither aim. Oh, the soldiers had rounded up plenty of gin sellers, but there were always more to take their place. Trevillion might as well be trying to empty the Thames with a tin cup. As to his search for the Ghost of St. Giles, despite being almost rabidly dedicated to his task, the captain had yet to lay hands on him.

And if Godric had anything to do with it, Trevillion’s luck wouldn’t change tonight.

He waited until the heavy boots of the soldiers had run past, then waited a bit more. When at last he ventured forth, the alley was empty.

Or at least it looked so. Trevillion was a wily hunter and had been known to retrace his steps just when a quarry thought himself safe.

Tonight was not a good night for his Ghostly activities.

Godric made the mouth of the alley just in time. Trevillion had indeed sent some of his men to double back. There were three, only twenty yards away, when he emerged and Godric was forced to take to his heels, cursing under his breath.

Thirty long minutes later, he dropped into his own garden. Saint House had been built at a time when access to the river was of paramount importance to aristocrats, both as a sign of prestige and, more practically, as a means of transport. The garden ran from the back of the house to the old river gate—a grand crumbling arch that gave access to the private steps leading to the river. His ancestors might’ve enjoyed displaying their wealth with private pleasure barges on the Thames, but Godric liked Saint House’s situation for more nefarious reasons: it was perfectly placed for a Ghost to come and go with no one the wiser.

Tonight he paused for a moment as he always did in the shadows of the garden, waiting, watching to make sure the way was clear. Nothing moved save the shadow of a cat strolling past, entirely unconcerned with his presence. Godric inhaled and crept up the garden path to his house. He carefully pushed open the door and entered his own study. He glanced around, noting that he was alone, and only then felt a measure of relief. Not that long ago he’d received a nasty surprise here.

Tonight, though, the fire was dead and the room dark. He felt his way to a certain panel by the fireplace and pressed the old wood. The panel popped out, revealing a cubbyhole in the wall and his nightclothes. Swiftly Godric stripped off his Ghostly costume and donned a nightshirt, banyan, and slippers.

Turning, he left the study and started for his own bedroom, feeling weariness sink into his bones. It’d been a long day. He still had no clear idea of how long Margaret planned to stay in town. Both his sister and the old tarter of an aunt had made vague references to the length of their trip—obviously they looked upon it as only a visit. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Margaret intended something more—a longer stay or, God help him, to take up permanent residence.

He was distracted by the thought, his defenses already lowered by the perceived safety of his own home. And as he entered his bedroom, he was attacked. Strong arms circled his neck, a body bore him back against the wall, and hands clutched at the back of his head. He smelled orange blossoms.

Then Margaret kissed him.

Chapter Four

But in the end, the Hellequin shrugged and looked away from the woman’s face. He reached down and, thrusting his hand into the young man’s chest, drew his soul from out of his body. The Hellequin wound a strand of spider’s silk three times counterclockwise about the young man’s soul to bind it, and then stuffed it into his sack made of raven’s hides. He turned to go, but as he did, the young man’s beloved cried aloud, “Stop!”…

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Megs’s first thought was that Godric was hard—much harder than she’d thought a man getting on in years would be. It was as if all of his muscles turned to stone the moment she touched him. She knew this because the momentum of her kiss had forced him back against the wall as she pressed herself into him. Chest, belly, arms, and thighs were unyieldingly obdurate against her much-softer body. She angled her head, opening her mouth, tasting wine on his cold lips—and nothing happened. She was trying all her wiles, which, granted, weren’t all that sophisticated, but still … was the man made of rock?