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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.”
