Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(43)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

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.