Font Size:  

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.

Megs shook her head. She’d have to examine these troubling feelings later. Right now they were nearing Saint House. She scrabbled for the edges of what remained of her bodice, pulling it over herself as best she could and then buttoning her half-cape all the way to her neck. If no one looked too closely, she could make it to her room without embarrassment.

The carriage shuddered to a stop and she remembered his directions. Quickly, she opened the door a crack and ordered Oliver to fetch Moulder. Lord knew what the footman and Tom thought of tonight’s events. They must’ve caught glimpses of Godric’s costume as he’d entered the carriage, and if that hadn’t been enough, the dragoon captain had shouted his suspicions.

Yet Godric hadn’t been arrested.

Megs vowed to talk to both men and thank them for their discretion.

The carriage door opened again as Moulder said, “Got yourself into a fix again, have you? Told you that …” The servant’s eyes widened, his words trailing away as he caught sight of Megs. “M’lady?”

“I have a knife wound in my back,” Godric said calmly, even though his hands were trembling.

Moulder blinked and turned his attention to his master. “Best get you inside, then, hadn’t we?”

“Yes, and discreetly.” Godric looked at his servant and some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them.

“O’ course.” Moulder produced an old cape and threw it around Godric’s shoulders, effectively hiding the Ghost’s costume. In a louder voice he said, “Had a few too many, have we, sir?”

Godric rolled his eyes as Moulder wrapped his arms around his middle to help him descend the carriage. “Hate this particular subterfuge. Makes me look such an idiot.”

“Only an idiot would let himself get stabbed in the back by some footpad,” Moulder said far lower. He grunted as they made the cobblestones, and Godric staggered.

“Wasn’t a footpad,” Godric gasped.

“Oh? Then who?”

The two of them were weaving as if Godric really were intoxicated. Megs hastily got down from the carriage and ran to Godric’s other side, taking his arm over her shoulder. “It was I.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like