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Why? Why Roger of all people?
Megs tried to imagine Roger being held at sword point, deciding to fight back even if mismatched.
She shook her head. Her conjured image was blurry. She couldn’t quite set his features right. When she’d first heard the news of his murder, she’d been sure that he wasn’t the type of man to foolishly provoke a fight with a footpad. Now …
Now she’d lost part of his memory. Lost part of Roger himself. She wasn’t sure she knew who he’d been anymore, and the thought sent panic racing in her chest.
Something moved in the shadows.
She had the pistol grasped in both hands and pointed even before the Ghost of St. Giles stepped from the doorway.
The rage hit her, hot and quick. How dare he? He was sullying ground sacred to her, ground sacred to her memory of Roger.
“You shouldn’t be here, my—”
She fired the pistol … except nothing happened but a sputtering sound and a tiny spark.
Then he was on her, big and hard, wrenching the pistol from her hands and throwing it, clattering, onto the cobblestones, out of reach.
She opened her mouth to shriek her anger, but his hand clamped down on the lower half of her face, his other arm hugging her close, trapping her hands against her sides.
She went insane. Men! All telling her what to do, all unable to give her the simple courtesy of treating her like she mattered. She writhed, trying to elbow him, trying to stamp on his toes, her dancing slippers sliding harmlessly against his jackboots. She twisted, small sounds of frustration and rage pushing against his damned hand. He grunted and staggered, pulling her with him as he half fell into the shadows against a house wall. She tucked her chin into her neck and slammed the top of her head against him, missing his jaw and connecting painfully with his chest, shaking with fury.
“Damn it—” His growl was low.
He didn’t seem affected at all, this murderer, this killer of all she’d ever held dear. She raised her head and glared at him over the top of his hand, daring him to do what he might.
He met her look and his eyes narrowed behind that stupid mask, and then his hand was moving from her mouth, but before she could draw breath, he was slamming his lips over hers and he was …
Kissing her?
Her world whirled sickeningly because he was angry and she was angry and his mouth wasn’t at all gentle, but somehow, despite all of that, or maybe because all of that, she felt it: a stirring. A warmth down below where—
No! This wasn’t right; this wasn’t going to happen, not for this man of all men. She tried to arch her head away, but he had a hand on the back of her neck, holding her there as he opened his mouth against hers, sweetly hot, wrongly enticing, and she bit him. She clamped down on his lower lip, tasting blood, whimpering. She couldn’t take much more of this, couldn’t hold out, but he didn’t pull away. He still held her close against his large, warm, masculine frame and she could feel that part of him now, hard and erect, pushing into her, even through her many skirts, and the feeling was supposed to repulse and scare her.
Instead it made her wet.
She gasped and he surged into her mouth in triumphant possession.
No. Nonono. She wasn’t this person. She refused to be.
He wouldn’t stop. He was going to make her betray herself, betray Roger, and she simply couldn’t let that happen. It would destroy what she had left of her world. The Ghost was so intent on her mouth, on teaching her that apparently it didn’t matter who pressed his tongue between her lips, licking so … so …
He’d let go of her arms.
She brought them up around his back, withdrew the dagger, and stabbed, with all her strength, with all her fear, with all her sorrow.
She felt the resistance of the wool, the solidity of the muscle, felt how, disgustingly, it was like carving beefsteak. She dug the knife into his back as far as she could, until it scraped against something hard in him.
He lifted his head, finally, finally looking at her with shocked, hurt, gray eyes, and parted his bloodied lips.
“Oh, Megs.”
Chapter Seven
The horrible imps Despair, Grief, and Loss tried to push Faith off, but she was stronger than she looked and held on firmly.
The Hellequin didn’t turn to look at her, but she could feel the muscles of his shoulders flex and relax as they rode.
