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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.”
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.”
