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Godric backed a step. He had no particular urge to kill the dragoon captain—the soldier was only doing his job, after all.
Captain Trevillion glared at the mounted dragoons behind Godric. “Did you not hear me, Stockard? I said the Ghost is mine.”
The soldiers trotted to the side, leaving Godric and Trevillion alone in an open space. Godric gripped his sword, feeling the hilt under his sweaty palm. The night was thick with the stink of blood and horses and the natural miasma of St. Giles.
Trevillion moved forward slowly, forcing Godric back. He lunged, but his attack was oddly clumsy. Perhaps the dragoon hadn’t much practice with his sword. Trevillion jabbed again and Godric easily knocked his sword aside, frowning now, trying to understand what the other man was doing. Was he herding him into a corner? But the space behind him was open.
Trevillion thrust again, this time engaging Godric a little more skillfully, still pushing him back because Godric really didn’t want this fight.
Their swords locked, each man straining into the other, sweat running down Godric’s back, and then Trevillion rolled his eyes and leaned close. “Run, you idiot.”
Godric realized that they’d moved several yards away from the other dragoons, close to the crossroads where a dark alley led.
Trevillion shoved hard against him.
Godric spun and fled, expecting any minute to feel a bullet hit his back or the thunder of hooves trampling him down.
They never came. Instead, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye as Alf scaled a tenement wall as nimbly as a monkey while the dragoons shouted helplessly below.
He ran flat out, his boots ringing on the cobblestones. He ran until the blood roared in his veins, until the breath sobbed in his lungs. He ran until the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children came into sight, a familiar carriage at the end of the lane and a cloaked female figure just about to mount the steps.
He stopped, hands propped on knees, his chest heaving, and craned his neck to stare as the woman turned around.
The hood of her velvet cloak was pushed back, glossy, dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. Those shoulders were square, a pistol gripped firmly in her right hand, and determination shone in her pretty eyes.
Godric caught his breath in admiration as he straightened.
Megs’s chin kicked up. “No need to thank me.”
He blinked. “What?”
She gestured behind her. “I brought the carriage.” Her face was composed, but he could see the tremble of her lips as she said gently, “Believe it or not, Ghosts have been known to be accosted by dragoons in this very spot.”
His heart had slowed when he’d stopped running, but now it seemed to speed again as he recognized her words. She’d come to rescue him, his brave Meggie. No one had ever done such a thing for him before.
He was aware, suddenly, of the chill condensing clammily on his skin, the smell of damp cobblestones, of the very air flowing in and out of his lungs.
But most of all he was aware of the woman, this woman, his woman, standing so proudly, waiting patiently for him, only him.
He walked toward her and knew with every fiber of his being that he walked to life itself.
MEGS’S VISION BEGAN to blur as Godric, dear, brave, reckless Godric, walked toward her. She’d held herself rigidly composed as she’d woken servants and found her pistols, as she’d waited for the horses to be harnessed and sent for a doctor, as she’d given hurried instructions to Mrs. Crumb, Moulder, and Mrs. St. John, as she’d ridden over in the carriage and tried not to imagine finding him already dead. She’d been concise, authoritative, and focused, but now she’d found him and he was alive.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
She didn’t even know how they made it inside the carriage, for she’d begun to shake, and once inside she simply let go and sobbed. Great, heaving, sloppy tears that held all the pain and fear she’d held back for the last several hours. He wrapped his arms around her and she gripped him tight because there was simply no way she was ever going to let him go again.
After a bit, she quieted enough to hear him murmuring as they rocked through the London night, “Hush, Meggie mine, hush. It’s all right.”
But his words only brought a new wave of grief. She squeezed her fingers into his shoulders until she knew she must be hurting him, but she couldn’t let go.
“No.” She shook her head against him. “It’s not right. You left.”
She felt his palm against her cheek, pressing as if he was trying to see her face, but she wouldn’t move.
“What’s not right, Megs? Why are you so upset?”
“Because I found you in your Ghost costume in St. Giles. You went after Lord Kershaw, didn’t you?”
