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Only the sound of more horses nearing made Godric stop. He stared at the man beneath him. The dragoon’s eyes were swollen and his lips split and bleeding, but he was alive and still struggling.
Thank God.
He was up and running in less than a second, the horses close behind him. A barrel at the corner of a house gave him a leg up and then he was climbing the side of the house, toes and fingertips straining for holds before he reached the rooftop.
A shout came from below, but he didn’t take the time to look back, simply fleeing over the roof, loose tiles sliding and crashing to the street below. He ran, the blood pumping in his chest, and didn’t stop until he was nearly a half-mile away.
Only then, as he leaned panting against a chimney, did he realize he was still being followed.
o;Who are you making love to, my lady? For I know it’s not me.”
Chapter Twelve
Faith was hungry as she clung to the Hellequin’s broad back. She fished in a pocket of her dress and took out a small apple. The Hellequin’s nostril’s flared as she bit into the sweet-tart flesh.
Faith was abashed at her discourtesy. “Would you like some?”
“I have not eaten the food of men for a millennium,” the Hellequin rasped.
“Well, then,” said Faith, “it’s past time you did so.”
She bit off a piece of the apple, and taking it from her own mouth, held it to his. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
At his words Megs froze beneath him.
Rage was pumping through Godric’s veins, corrosive and hot, expanding, making him feel as if he’d explode from inside if he didn’t get out of here at once. He gingerly withdrew from her silky depths, moving carefully so as not to hurt her.
He’d never in his life worried that he might harm a woman in shear anger.
His movement shifted the covers, stirring the scent of semen and sex and her. He couldn’t think; his emotions were overwhelming him.
“I didn’t—” she started, foolish wench.
How dare she try to deny it?
“Quiet,” he bit out, sliding from the bed.
“Godric.”
“Will you leave it?” he hissed, turning on her in the dark. He had to leave before he said something—did something—he would regret.
But she was ever contrary. He felt her fingers wrap around his wrist, feminine and strong.
He stilled.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
He could still smell her scent, and he realized to his horror that it was probably imprinted upon his skin. “Out.”
“Where?”
He sneered, though she couldn’t see it in the dark. “Where do you think? I go to St. Giles. To find your lover’s murderer. To do my work as the Ghost.”
“But …” Her voice lowered in the dark, a mere whisper. “But I don’t want you to go, Godric. I think you lose a bit of your soul every time you go out as the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you made this bargain, my lady.” He flexed his hand, his tendons moving within her grasp, but made no move to pull his wrist from her fingers. “You wanted me to investigate. Well, I do my investigating as the Ghost. Have you changed your mind? Do you want me to give up the hunt for Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer?”
