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“Sometimes he’s not,” Godric said, and could tell by her confused expression that she didn’t understand him. His words were slurring, but he had a sudden intense urge to make her understand one thing. “I didn’t kill Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”

Her gaze slipped from his as she examined his back again. “I didn’t think—”

He grasped her arm, making her turn. Her hair was mostly down, a wild, magnificent cloud of black curling locks framing the white skin of her wonderful breasts. If he died tonight, he’d give thanks that he’d seen her like this before he entered Hell.

“I was at d’Arque’s ball,” he gasped. “That night. I—”

She’d fallen before him at the news of Fraser-Burnsby’s death—her lover’s death, though Godric hadn’t known that at the time. Godric had barely managed to catch her before her head would’ve hit the marble floor. He’d carried her limp form to a secluded room and there left her to the care of Isabel Beckinhall.

He blinked, focusing on her face, which was too flushed, her eyes too bright. “I wasn’t in St. Giles.”

“I know.” She touched his cheek with one finger, apparently oblivious that her hand was covered in his blood. “I know.”

GODRIC’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED and for a moment she thought he’d passed out.

“Godric!” Megs’s heart skipped as his head sagged to the side.

But then, as if with a supreme effort of will, he straightened again, his gray eyes clear and piercing as he stared at her, even though his face had gone pasty white. “Do you trust your coachman? Your footman?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said at once, and then realized: his very life might depend upon the discretion of Oliver and Tom. She swallowed and thought about it, but in the end said sincerely, “They both have always been loyal. All my servants are.”

“Good. When the carriage stops, please send Oliver in to get Moulder. He’ll know what to do.” A thin white line incised itself around his mouth as he pressed his lips together. He must be in terrible pain.

“How many times have you done this before?” she whispered.

He shook his head slightly. “Enough to know this wound isn’t fatal.”

She stared at him, appalled. Only days before, she’d thought him a doddering old man. And now … even wounded, the breadth of his shoulders strained the white shirt he wore, his hands were elegant and strong, and his face hard and intelligent. He fairly vibrated with vitality.

How had his pretended senility ever deceived her?

She shivered. She was still all but bare to the waist because he’d cut the dress from her torso and bent his head to fasten those ridiculously sensuous lips onto her breast. The shock of it, after violence and, yes, sexual excitement, had nearly made her forget their danger. When the dragoon captain had opened the carriage door, she’d squeaked with real surprise.

ad 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.

“What is your intention?” he rasped.

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