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He wanted to kiss her one last time, to impress her beauty upon his mind and carry it with him on whatever journey this night brought him, but he feared to wake her.
In the end, he simply left his bedroom without touching her again.
He called Moulder and dressed swiftly in his Ghost costume, answering the manservant’s questions curtly. He took both swords because he would need them, and further injury would be a moot point after tonight anyway. And then he stole into his element.
The darkness.
The night was chill, but not overly so, the hint of spring’s awakening whispering on the soft breeze. Overhead, the moon veiled herself seductively with wispy clouds. Godric looked carefully but caught no sight of anyone lurking. Perhaps Captain Trevillion had finally conceded the need for sleep.
He loped west, toward the more fashionable parts of London where the aristocracy built their new houses. Toward the Earl of Kershaw’s house.
He’d made his promise to Megs and he intended to keep it. Had he the time, he might’ve researched his enemy, found his weaknesses and flaws and brought him down more subtly. But that plan had changed perforce with the scene in the garden. Kershaw was a threat to Megs now. He’d not missed the look of hatred the other man had shot his Meggie when she’d lunged at him. She wouldn’t be quiet, wouldn’t do the safe thing and leave him alone. A man such as Kershaw didn’t leave such potential dangers living. Fraser-Burnsby was an obvious example.
Godric shuddered and stopped at a corner, leaning into the rough brick building over a chandler’s shop. The mere thought of Megs in danger, of Kershaw somehow finding a way to hurt her, made crimson flood his vision. He would not—could not—let the other man live while he was a threat to Megs and their child.
That thought—that she was carrying his babe—steadied him enough to start off again. It was a strange but not unwelcome feeling to know that she carried his child. That someday she would hold a babe against her pretty white breast and that the child would be part of him as well.
For the first time in a very long while, he yearned to see tomorrow. Tomorrow and the day after that and the year after that. There was a possibility that with Megs he might have a life to look forward to. And because of that, tonight he was going to hunt down a man and assassinate him in cold blood. This act would damn his very soul, but for Megs it was worth it.
pent the carriage ride home burrowed into Godric’s shoulder, trying to inhale his familiar scent, trying to remember all that she had rather than all she had lost.
When they reached Saint House, Godric climbed out of the carriage and then turned around and helped her down, as solicitous as if she were an invalid. She murmured a protest, but he didn’t reply, simply tightening his arms about her as he led her in.
Megs heard Mrs. Crumb ask something as they passed her in the hallway and was glad when Sarah stopped to murmur to her. Godric hadn’t even hesitated. He mounted the stairs, keeping his right arm around her shoulders, and it was only when they made the upper floor that she remembered his wrist.
She looked anxiously up at him. “Dear Lord, Godric, I must’ve hurt your wrist when we were in the garden—”
“No,” he murmured as he led her into his bedroom. “Hush. It’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
A hot flush rose in her chest, sweeping over her neck and face, and then she was weeping, the tears scalding. There was no relief in these tears, though, no relief while Lord Kershaw lived.
She must’ve said something as she sobbed—or perhaps Godric knew instinctively what she felt.
He wrapped her in his arms as he gently let down her hair, and it wasn’t until her heaving breaths began to quiet that she heard what he was saying.
“He won’t get away, Meggie mine, I won’t let him. I promise on my soul that I’ll take him down. I promise, Meggie, I promise.”
His repetition soothed her hurt a little. Megs laid her cheek against his shoulder, limply letting him do as he wanted. He was drawing off her dress, unlacing her stays, freeing her from her clothing. When she was in only her chemise, he laid her gently on his bed and crossed to his dresser. She heard the splash of water and then he was back by her, a cool cloth pressed to her swollen cheeks.
It felt like a benediction, the touch of unconditional forgiveness, and she whispered without thinking. “I loved him.”
“I know,” he murmured in reply. “I know.”
She closed her eyes, her fingers pressing against her stomach, flattened because she was lying down. There was no sign, no manifestation of the baby, but she believed on faith alone.
“I can’t begin again,” she whispered, “not when he hasn’t been avenged. I can’t have this baby with this undone, and I can’t leave London.”
She opened her eyes to see that his eyes had widened and were fixed upon her hands where they lay kneading her stomach. Slowly, his gaze rose to hers, and it burned, but she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.
She hadn’t meant to tell him like this, but she couldn’t order her brain.
“I can’t leave London now,” she repeated.
“No,” he agreed. “Not now. Not yet.”
He got up and went to the dresser and she closed her eyes, drifting.
