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He waited until the heavy boots of the soldiers had run past, then waited a bit more. When at last he ventured forth, the alley was empty.
Or at least it looked so. Trevillion was a wily hunter and had been known to retrace his steps just when a quarry thought himself safe.
Tonight was not a good night for his Ghostly activities.
Godric made the mouth of the alley just in time. Trevillion had indeed sent some of his men to double back. There were three, only twenty yards away, when he emerged and Godric was forced to take to his heels, cursing under his breath.
Thirty long minutes later, he dropped into his own garden. Saint House had been built at a time when access to the river was of paramount importance to aristocrats, both as a sign of prestige and, more practically, as a means of transport. The garden ran from the back of the house to the old river gate—a grand crumbling arch that gave access to the private steps leading to the river. His ancestors might’ve enjoyed displaying their wealth with private pleasure barges on the Thames, but Godric liked Saint House’s situation for more nefarious reasons: it was perfectly placed for a Ghost to come and go with no one the wiser.
Tonight he paused for a moment as he always did in the shadows of the garden, waiting, watching to make sure the way was clear. Nothing moved save the shadow of a cat strolling past, entirely unconcerned with his presence. Godric inhaled and crept up the garden path to his house. He carefully pushed open the door and entered his own study. He glanced around, noting that he was alone, and only then felt a measure of relief. Not that long ago he’d received a nasty surprise here.
Tonight, though, the fire was dead and the room dark. He felt his way to a certain panel by the fireplace and pressed the old wood. The panel popped out, revealing a cubbyhole in the wall and his nightclothes. Swiftly Godric stripped off his Ghostly costume and donned a nightshirt, banyan, and slippers.
Turning, he left the study and started for his own bedroom, feeling weariness sink into his bones. It’d been a long day. He still had no clear idea of how long Margaret planned to stay in town. Both his sister and the old tarter of an aunt had made vague references to the length of their trip—obviously they looked upon it as only a visit. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Margaret intended something more—a longer stay or, God help him, to take up permanent residence.
He was distracted by the thought, his defenses already lowered by the perceived safety of his own home. And as he entered his bedroom, he was attacked. Strong arms circled his neck, a body bore him back against the wall, and hands clutched at the back of his head. He smelled orange blossoms.
Then Margaret kissed him.
Chapter Four
But in the end, the Hellequin shrugged and looked away from the woman’s face. He reached down and, thrusting his hand into the young man’s chest, drew his soul from out of his body. The Hellequin wound a strand of spider’s silk three times counterclockwise about the young man’s soul to bind it, and then stuffed it into his sack made of raven’s hides. He turned to go, but as he did, the young man’s beloved cried aloud, “Stop!”…
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Megs’s first thought was that Godric was hard—much harder than she’d thought a man getting on in years would be. It was as if all of his muscles turned to stone the moment she touched him. She knew this because the momentum of her kiss had forced him back against the wall as she pressed herself into him. Chest, belly, arms, and thighs were unyieldingly obdurate against her much-softer body. She angled her head, opening her mouth, tasting wine on his cold lips—and nothing happened. She was trying all her wiles, which, granted, weren’t all that sophisticated, but still … was the man made of rock?
The air burst from her lungs in a puff of frustration and she drew back a little to look into his face.
Which was a mistake.
His crystal gray eyes were narrowed, his mouth flattened, and his nostrils flared just a bit. All in all, not an encouraging expression.
“Margaret,” he clipped out, using her full Christian name, “what are you doing?”
She winced. If he had to ask, her attempt at seduction must be truly lacking.
Baby. She must keep her purpose at the forefront of her mind.
She smiled, though the effort might’ve been a trifle strained. “I … I thought tonight would be a good time to become better acquainted.”
“Acquainted.” The word dropped, lifeless and heavy from his lips, and fell like a dead halibut between them.
She’d never liked fish. Megs inhaled to explain, but he set his hands on her waist, lifted her up and aside, and strolled past her to the fireplace.
Megs goggled. She’d never been one of those fairylike girls, the ones who lived on marzipan and the odd strawberry here and there. She was a bit over average height and had the figure of a woman with a fondness for hearty country food. Yet her husband—her elderly husband—had lifted her with as little effort as he would a fluffy kitten.
Megs squinted at Godric, now on one knee by the hearth, stirring up the fire that had died while she’d dozed waiting for his return. He’d left off his soft cap tonight, and she saw for the first time the shorn hair that lay close to his scalp. It was dark, nearly black, but there was a wide swath of gray at both temples.
“How old are you?” she demanded, truly without thinking.
He sighed, still efficiently prodding the fire into life. “Seven and thirty and, I’m afraid, well past the age of enjoying surprises.”
He stood and turned, and somehow he seemed taller tonight, his shoulders broader. Without his gray wig, without the habitual half-moon reading spectacles, he seemed … well, not younger, precisely, but certainly more virile.
Megs shivered. Virile was good. Virile was what she most needed in the prospective father of her child.
Why, then, did Godric seem suddenly more daunting as well?
