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.”
Moulder’s eyes widened at her for the second time that night. “Is that right? Would’ve liked to’ve seen that, I would.”
“Bloodthirsty bastard,” Godric hissed as they made the front door.
“I’m not proud of it,” Megs whispered miserably.
Godric halted, swiveling his face to look at her, his gray eyes like crystals. “Not your fault.”
Moulder muttered something under his breath and they all paused for a moment on the landing. Godric’s arm was like a lead weight across Megs’s shoulders, and she would probably be sore on the morrow, but that wasn’t what worried her. She could feel Godric trembling against her and, even more distressing, the seep of something wet against the side pressed to his.
He was still bleeding.
“Come on,” she urged gently. “We’ll rest once we get you to your room.”
For a second, her gaze caught Moulder’s and she knew they shared the same concern. If Godric collapsed on the stairs, they’d have to get the footmen to carry him up. The fewer servants who knew of this matter, the better.
As if Megs’s thought had summoned her, Mrs. Crumb appeared at the bottom of the stairway. “May I be of assistance?”
Megs turned her head to look at the housekeeper. It must be well into the early hours of the morning, but Mrs. Crumb wore her starched black dress, the white apron and cap as crisp as ever, and she gazed up at them as calmly as if inquiring if they’d like tea served in the small sitting room.
“Hot water,” Moulder said before Megs could gather her wits, and his next words confirmed her suspicion that he was quite used to emergencies of this nature. “A stack of clean cloths and the brandy from Mr. St. John’s study, if you please, Mrs. Crumb.”
Megs held her breath, waiting for the housekeeper’s outrage. To be ordered about in front of their employers was a clear breach of servant etiquette.
But Mrs. Crumb merely paused a moment before saying, “At once, Mr. Moulder.”
Her expression was as serene as ever as she turned to do the butler’s orders.
Megs glanced at Moulder.
He looked nearly as surprised as she. “I’m beginning to almost like that woman.”
The rest of their progress up the stairs was slow but uneventful. Strange that she’d spent years hating the Ghost, wishing only for his death—and now she wished just as much to get him safely to his bed. Megs bit her lip. In the morning she knew she would begin again, somehow start the search for Roger’s murderer, but right now all she wanted was for Godric to be well.
When they finally made it to Godric’s room, he was panting, a sheen of sweat lighting his pale brow. Megs watched as Moulder helped Godric sit on a wooden chair; then he disappeared into the dressing room. Godric plucked at his blood-streaked shirt and she roused herself, quickly crossing to the chair where he sat.
“Here, let me help,” she murmured, unbuttoning the shirt.
It had stuck to his back and she knew it would hurt terribly when removed. She concentrated on her trembling fingers, unable to meet his eyes, his warm breath ruffling her hair.
“Megs,” he whispered, and she realized dimly that he was finally using her nickname.
Tears suddenly blurred her vision. “I’m so, so sorry.” She felt him raise a hand as if to touch her cheek.
“Here we are, then,” Moulder said far too cheerfully as he returned with a small wooden box.
At the same time a tap came at the door.
Megs hurried to it, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
Outside, the ever-efficient Mrs. Crumb had a pile of neatly folded snowy white cloths, a bottle of brandy, and a steaming kettle.
“Oh, thank you,” Megs said, taking the items from the housekeeper.
“Is there anything else you need, my lady?” Mrs. Crumb asked.
“No, that will be all.” Megs bit her lip. “I’d appreciate it if anything you saw tonight were not discussed in the servants’ quarters.”
Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow arched imperceptibly. “Naturally, my lady,” she said before curtsying and turning away.
Oh, dear. She’d obviously just insulted her wonderful new housekeeper. Megs sighed as she closed the door behind her. She’d have to somehow make it up to Mrs. Crumb in the morning.
When she turned, she saw that Moulder already had Godric’s shirt off. Her husband had turned to straddle the chair, his back bared for Moulder, who was washing the blood from the wound in rather brisk movements.
Megs started forward, but her footsteps slowed as she neared the tableau. Godric’s back … it wasn’t anything like a middle-aged man—or at least what she thought a middle-aged man’s back should look like. She blinked, feeling muddled. He’d laid his bare arms across the back of the chair, making his muscles bunch along his upper arms and shoulders. Strong, working muscles, the kind used to swing an ax—or a sword. A thin silver chain caught the light at the back of his neck as he bent his head. His spine was graceful in a particularly masculine way, indented and taut, leading down to a narrow waist and buttocks outlined by his tight leggings.