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“Don’t even contemplate it,” Winter said curtly. “You need to heal before you try again.”
“I need to find those girls,” Godric growled. The buttons of his fall were damnably difficult with only one hand.
“Yes, but becoming further injured—or killed—will do us no good.” Winter hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”
Godric cocked his head impatiently.
“Alf left just after he brought you and the girls here,” Winter said. “But he was agitated. Apparently Hannah, the ginger-haired lass he mentioned before, was not among the girls you rescued.”
“Damnation.” Godric glared at his arm. “Will she try to attack the third workshop on her own, do you think?”
“She?”
Godric nodded curtly. “Alf is a girl in disguise. I should never have brought her on tonight’s mission.”
“You—we—had no way of knowing.” Winter looked thoughtful. “Aye, and now she might be off trying to free her ginger-haired friend by herself.”
Godric had never felt so helpless. Well, that wasn’t correct. The last time he’d felt this way was beside Clara’s deathbed. He pushed the ugly memory away.
Winter looked disturbed. “I don’t think Alf will act on her own,” he said slowly. “She seemed quite respectful of the guards kept around the workshops. And remember: even if she did try something so foolish, the workshop has no doubt already moved.”
Godric nodded, though the reminder was but small consolation. Alf might be careful to project a tough and pragmatic exterior, but she’d put herself at risk to inform on the workshops’ whereabouts—and she’d been truly remorseful about delivering the ginger-haired little girl to one of them.
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.”
