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.
“What is your intention?” he rasped.
“I shall cling to you until I can persuade you to free my beloved’s soul,” Faith said bravely.
The Hellequin merely nodded. “Prepare yourself, then, to cross the River of Sorrow.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Only a fool lets his guard down in St. Giles.
The words rang in Godric’s head, spoken in the ghostly voice of his dead mentor, Sir Stanley Gilpin. Sir Stanley would’ve called him a damned idiot if he could see Godric now, the hilt of his wife’s puny knife sticking out of his back.
“Godric!”
He blinked, focusing on Megs’s face. She’d gone pale, her eyes wide and stricken, the moment he’d whispered her name. Of course that might change as soon as she remembered that she believed he’d killed her lover.
The clatter of hoofbeats sounded nearby.
Godric reached over his shoulder and was just able to grasp the knife.
“Dear God, I’ve killed you.” Actual tears stood in Megs’s eyes.
Godric wished he’d time to admire them.
“Not quite.” And he pulled the knife free with a dizzying wash of pain and a spurt of fresh hot blood. He shoved the thing into his boot and took Megs’s elbow. “Come.”
Nobody could afford horses in St. Giles. Hoofbeats meant only one thing.
“But your back,” Megs wailed. “You should lie down. I’ll get Oliver and Tom—”
“Quickly, sweeting,” he said, and turned toward her carriage even as he pulled the mask and hat off. In the near dark, perhaps her coachman and footman wouldn’t notice the pattern of his tunic. Or the fact that he was wearing a half-cape and jackboots.
Never mind. There were worse things to fear at the moment than her servants discovering his secret.
Fortunately she came freely enough. Godric wasn’t sure if he were up to dragging a struggling Megs into the carriage at the moment. She was surprisingly vehement when she fought.
Tom craned around to watch when they entered the carriage but made no comment when Godric curtly ordered, “Home. Fast as you can.”
He thrust Megs down onto a seat even as the carriage started forward. Fortunately she had a hidden compartment under the seats—he’d thought as much since that first night when she’d produced those pistols. He shoved up the empty seat and threw in his swords, cape, hat, and mask. Then he shut the seat and sat rather abruptly, possibly because the carriage was swinging around a corner.
Shouts from without.
Megs was suddenly beside him. “You’re still bleeding. I can see the wet shining against your tunic.”
He didn’t say anything, simply drawing the tunic off his head. Underneath he wore a simple white shirt. “Come here.” They were running out of time.
She seemed to realize suddenly that there was more to his urgency than his trifling wound. “What is it?”
“We’re about to be stopped by the dragoons,” he said grimly as he pulled her into his lap, parting her legs beneath her skirts so that she straddled him. “If they discover I’m the Ghost, we’re both ruined. Do you understand?”
She was both brave and intelligent, his wife. Her eyes widened, but she merely nodded once.
The carriage was already slowing, with the soldiers’ horses right outside the window. They could hear the shouts of the men, the answering voice of their coachman.
“Good,” he said. “Follow my lead.”
He took the little knife from his boot and slit the front of her bodice open, cutting through stays and chemise as well. Any other woman would’ve screamed—the dress was silk, an expensive, frivolous thing—but Megs merely watched him with startled brown eyes.
He pulled the edges widely apart and the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen popped into view, round and full with dark rose nipples. Had it just been his life, he might’ve taken the time to look his fill. But it was her life as well—or at least her reputation. If he were hanged as a murderer, she’d be shunned by all but her family.
He pulled her close and bent his head as hands scrabbled at the carriage door. Then his mouth was full of her sweet nipple and he suckled strongly, as the heady scent of woman and orange blossoms swirled about his head. He could see her pulse beating at her tender throat like a fluttering bird. Damn it, if his mouth hadn’t been full, he might’ve chuckled.
He was as hard as a rock.
The door to the carriage was yanked open.
He felt her jerk, her strong young back arching in his hands, and she brushed her fingers through his cropped hair.
“What—” The voice was loud and commanding. The voice of a dragoon captain.