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Pray she did nothing stupid.
He needed to heal. To get back to St. Giles and finish this business.
A soft scratch came at the door before it opened.
Megs peeked in. “The carriage is waiting and dawn is beginning to break.”
Godric looked at her, his wife, hovering so hesitantly, not even venturing closer as if she feared rejection. She’d come for him when Winter had sent word, without demure or question. She’d lain beneath him earlier tonight and given him everything he’d demanded. She was so much and he felt so little—too broken, too old, too weary—to give her everything she needed. He should let her go, let her fly free to find a younger lover like her Roger.
He should do all those things, and maybe later, when he was healed and not in pain, he would, but right now he murmured his thanks to Makepeace, threw the cloak about his shoulders, and let her take his good arm. Let her draw it across her slender womanly shoulders. Let her take a small portion of his weight and guide him down the stairs.
His stepmother waited for them in the home’s entry way along with Megs’s footmen. They bracketed him and the women as he made his slow, painful way to the carriage. Godric didn’t miss Captain Trevillion, lurking in the shadows by the home, and he didn’t miss the captain’s deliberate nod. That nod was a warning, a challenge delayed. It meant, I know who you are. Come again into St. Giles and I’ll take you.
Godric knew it as surely as if the dragoon captain had screamed the words. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. Makepeace was right: now he needed to heal. But when he was strong again, he’d return to St. Giles, Trevillion or not, because those girls needed rescuing.
It wasn’t until they were all settled in the carriage that his stepmother spoke again.
She waited until the door was closed, until the carriage jolted forward; then she looked at Godric and said, “How long have you been the Ghost of St. Giles?”
Chapter Fifteen
Grief rolled down the Peak of Whispers, screeching his rage all the way. The Hellequin made no comment, but one corner of his stern mouth may’ve lifted up. Now Faith grew thirsty, so reaching into her pocket, she drew out a small skin of wine. She took a sip, and as she did so, the Hellequin licked his lips. She offered the skin to him. “Would you like a drink?” “I have not drunk the wine of men for a millennium,” he rasped.
“Then you must be very thirsty,” she said as she held the skin to his lips. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
The groan was muffled, as if Godric was doing his very best not to make any sound at all, which only made it worse for Megs—the knowledge that he must be in terrible pain to let the muted sounds slip past.
She stared at the closed door to his bedroom, wringing her hands.
“Come sit, Megs,” Mrs. St. John said from behind her. Megs glanced at her distractedly, jumping when another grunt came from the bedroom.
“Please.” Her mother-in-law patted the seat beside her on the settee. “You’ll do him no good pacing like that. In fact, he’ll be embarrassed if you see him afterward and you’re distraught. He’ll know you heard him. Gentlemen detest appearing weak.”
Megs bit her lip, but she obediently sank into the settee cushions. “I don’t think him weak. He’s hurt. And I do so wish he’d let me stay with him when he’s in such pain.”
“Mmm,” Mrs. St. John murmured in agreement. “But gentlemen are terribly stubborn and rather illogical when they’re hurt, you see. Godric’s father had the gout in his later years and he was an absolute bear about it. Wouldn’t let anyone near him, including me.” For a moment she looked wistful. Then she glanced down at her hands, folded in her lap, and said, “This is my fault, you know.”
Megs blinked, confused. “What is?”
“That.” Mrs. St. John waved a hand toward Godric’s bedroom. “I knew he was alone after Clara died, knew he was hurting, but I let his stoicism keep me away.” She grimaced. “He’s always been so very self-sufficient, so cold when I made any overtures, that it’s hard to remember he’s a man like any other. That he needs the comfort of family as much as any other.”
“I don’t see how that’s your fault,” Megs said. “You did try, and if he rejected your attempts, then surely the fault lies with him, not you.”
“No.” Her mother-in-law shook her head. “I love him as surely as if I’d carried him within my own body. A mother never abandons her child, even when he seems to want it. It was—is—my duty to break through the barriers he surrounds himself with. I should have kept trying until he gave in.” Her look softened as she watched Megs. “I thank God that you decided to seek him out, to make your marriage a true one. He needs you, Megs. You’re the one who can save him.”
Megs looked away, feeling ashamed. Mrs. St. John praised her falsely: She’d come to London, made their marriage “true” for purely selfish reasons. But she couldn’t explain that to her mother-in-law.
Instead she focused on the last part of what Mrs. St. John said, uncertainty a tight band around her chest. “Can one save a man who seeks willful self-destruction?”
The older woman’s brows arched. “You think that’s why he goes into St. Giles?”
Megs looked at her with sorrow. “Why else?”
Mrs. St. John sighed. “You have to understand that it took years for Clara to die—years in which Godric could do no more than stand idle and watch. Perhaps his dressing as the Ghost is his way of doing something good after so long being unable to do anything at all.”
“He does do good in St. Giles.” Megs frowned as she fingered the tassel on one of the settee cushions. “But, ma’am, whatever good he does others must be balanced by the evil he does himself.”
