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?
The air burst from her lungs in a puff of frustration and she drew back a little to look into his face.
Which was a mistake.
His crystal gray eyes were narrowed, his mouth flattened, and his nostrils flared just a bit. All in all, not an encouraging expression.
“Margaret,” he clipped out, using her full Christian name, “what are you doing?”
She winced. If he had to ask, her attempt at seduction must be truly lacking.
Baby. She must keep her purpose at the forefront of her mind.
She smiled, though the effort might’ve been a trifle strained. “I … I thought tonight would be a good time to become better acquainted.”
“Acquainted.” The word dropped, lifeless and heavy from his lips, and fell like a dead halibut between them.
She’d never liked fish. Megs inhaled to explain, but he set his hands on her waist, lifted her up and aside, and strolled past her to the fireplace.
Megs goggled. She’d never been one of those fairylike girls, the ones who lived on marzipan and the odd strawberry here and there. She was a bit over average height and had the figure of a woman with a fondness for hearty country food. Yet her husband—her elderly husband—had lifted her with as little effort as he would a fluffy kitten.
Megs squinted at Godric, now on one knee by the hearth, stirring up the fire that had died while she’d dozed waiting for his return. He’d left off his soft cap tonight, and she saw for the first time the shorn hair that lay close to his scalp. It was dark, nearly black, but there was a wide swath of gray at both temples.
“How old are you?” she demanded, truly without thinking.
He sighed, still efficiently prodding the fire into life. “Seven and thirty and, I’m afraid, well past the age of enjoying surprises.”
He stood and turned, and somehow he seemed taller tonight, his shoulders broader. Without his gray wig, without the habitual half-moon reading spectacles, he seemed … well, not younger, precisely, but certainly more virile.
Megs shivered. Virile was good. Virile was what she most needed in the prospective father of her child.
Why, then, did Godric seem suddenly more daunting as well?
He gestured to one of the chairs before the fireplace. “Please. Sit down.”
She sank into the chair, feeling a bit like she had the time her governess had caught her hoarding sugared almonds.
He leaned against the mantel and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“We’ve been married two years,” she began, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them. Best to try not to look like a schoolboy being called on the carpet by a particularly dreary schoolmaster.
“You seemed happy enough at Laurelwood Manor.”
“I was. I am. …” She held her hands flat out and shook her head. “No.” She wasn’t making any sense, but the time had come to stop prevaricating. “No. I’ve been content enough, but not entirely happy.”
His dark brows drew together as he stared at her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She leaned forward urgently. “I’m not blaming you by any means. Laurelwood is a wonderful place to live. I love the gardens, Upper Hornsfield, the people, and your family.”
One eyebrow arched. “But?”
“But it—I’m—missing something.” She jumped to her feet, pacing restlessly around the chair, trying to think how to make him understand. At the last moment, she realized her direction was taking her to the bed. She stopped short and whirled, blurting, “I want—I desperately need—a child, Godric.”
For a moment he simply stared at her as if stunned speechless. Then his gaze dropped to the fire. The light behind him silhouetted his profile, outlining a long brow and straight nose, and Megs thought rather irreverently that his lips from this angle looked so soft, almost feminine.
But not quite. “I see.”
She shook her head, pacing again. “Do you?” Not toward the bed. “I was pregnant when we entered into this marriage. I know it was wrong of me, but I wanted that child—Roger’s child. Even in the grief of his passing, it was something to hold on to—something of my very own.” She stopped before his dresser, severely ordered, severely plain, only a washing basin, a pitcher, and a small dish on its surface all equidistant from each other. She reached out and picked up the dish. “A child. A baby. My baby.”
“The urge toward motherhood is natural.”
His voice had grown remote. She was losing him and she didn’t even know why.
She faced him, her hands outstretched toward him, the little dish still in her hand. “Yes, it is. I want a baby, Godric. I know it’s not part of our original bargain.” She stopped, laughing bitterly. “Actually, I’m not sure what the original bargain you made with Griffin was.”
He looked up at that, his face closed and detached. “Don’t you? Didn’t Griffin tell you?”
She glanced away, feeling too exposed. She’d been so shamed, so embarrassed, and so grief-stricken that she’d not even been able to look Griffin in the face when he’d told her. Asking any questions had been quite beyond her. And since then …
She realized now that she’d been avoiding her beloved older brother for years. She closed her eyes. “No.”
His voice rasped low. “Consummating—or not consummating—the marriage wasn’t mentioned.”
Megs’s eyes snapped open as she stared at him, this stranger who was her husband. It hadn’t been mentioned? Belatedly—very belatedly—and for the first time, she wondered why, exactly, Godric had agreed to marry her. At the time she’d been near mad with grief and terrified of being pregnant out of wedlock. She’d only had the strength to follow Griffin’s firm management. Now, though, she wondered … why? Had her baby survived, the child would’ve become Godric’s heir. Hadn’t he cared that he would’ve sheltered a cuckoo in his ancient familial nest? Money was the obvious answer—the Readings had enough to bribe a man to overlook the provenience of his heir. But Megs knew that Godric must not’ve been swayed by wealth. He had enough of it himself. Besides Laurelwood Manor—and its extensive property—he had land in both Oxfordshire and Essex, and although Saint House hadn’t been in the best shape on her arrival, he hadn’t blinked when she’d cited the sum needed to hire the new staff and redecorate. If anything, he’d seemed bored by the conversation.
Her eyes dropped to her hands, absently turning the little dish over and over. He certainly hadn’t agreed to marry her because of friendship for her brother—before the night Griffin had informed her of his arrangement, he’d never mentioned the name Godric St. John.
If Godric hadn’t married her for money or friendship, then why?
“Margaret.”
She glanced up from her puzzled musing to find him watching her.
He held her gaze as he came toward her and gently took the dish out of her hands. “You know, don’t you, that I was married before?”
She swallowed. The tale of Clara St. John, both her devastating disease and her husband’s unflinching fidelity, were well known in London society. “Yes.”
He inclined his head and turned away, crossing to the dresser. He placed the dish back in its place—neither too far nor too close to the pitcher, and remained there, his back to her, as his long elegant fingers rested on the dish’s edge. “I loved Clara very much. Our estates adjoined in Cheshire, you know. Her people are the Hamiltons. Her brother and his family live on the Hamilton estate now, I believe.”
