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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.
His face had closed now, though, looking cold and nearly remote. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“No,” she said shakily. “I mean …”
She inhaled, desperately trying to find equilibrium. She’d destroyed something just now, she could feel it, but if she let him walk through that door again, they might never do this.
She opened her eyes, looking at him imploringly. “Please. I want this now.”
He watched her a moment more, his eyes unreadable, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
He indicated the bed and she drew off her wrapper self-consciously before climbing in. She shivered as her bare legs slid along cold sheets.
Godric took off his banyan and slippers, standing in his nightshirt as he looked at her consideringly. “Would you like me to snuff the candles?”
She nodded gratefully. “Yes, please.”
He didn’t say anything as he snuffed the candelabra on the dresser and the one by the bed. The fire had already been banked for the night and the dull glow of the embers didn’t give much light. Megs listened as Godric lifted the covers of her bed, felt the dip as his weight settled beside her.
She started to tense, and then she felt his touch, gentle but sure. The time to change her mind was past.
Megs tried to think of Roger, to summon his dear face to the front of her brain, but Godric was running his hand down her side, distracting her, making Roger vanish like a reflection in a pond disturbed. Godric leaned up on one elbow, his bulk a dark shape above her. It occurred to her that if it were any other man, she might fear him now.
