One never knew.
Not that that had ever stopped him.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve only ever killed those who I caught attacking the weak and vulnerable.”
There was glad relief in her eyes, which was as it should be. Megs was a creature of light and joy. She had no business contemplating the darkness that he fought night after night in St. Giles.
“I’m so glad.” She frowned for a moment, absently taking a dozen spills from the jar and stacking them messily on the mantel, but then she seemed to remember something and turned back to him, a few spills still in her hand. “That was what Griffin was blackmailing you over, wasn’t it? He knew that you were the Ghost.”
Godric’s mouth twisted. “Yes.”
“I see.” She nodded to herself rather thoughtfully and tossed the remaining spills onto the chair before the fire. Several slid off to land on the small rug underneath. “Well, I’m glad I found out, truly. I think a wife, even one so strangely married as I, should know her husband’s past, and now that it’s behind you—behind us, rather—I think—”
“Megs,” he whispered, in dawning horror.
But she didn’t seem to hear. “We’ll muddle on much better in the future. I can learn who you truly are and you …” She trailed off as she seemed to at last realize that something was wrong. “What is it?”
“I don’t intend to give up being the Ghost of St. Giles.”
She stared at him. “But … you must.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because”—she threw wide her hands, nearly knocking the dish from its perch on the mantel—“it’s dangerous and … and you killed people. You just must stop.”
He sighed, watching her. He could tell her about the widow he’d saved from rape last month, the robbers he’d chased away from an elderly flower seller a week later, the orphaned girls he’d rescued on the night he’d saved Megs herself. He could tell her horror stories and brag about bravado, but in the end it hardly mattered. He knew, deep inside his crippled soul, that even if he’d never save another life, his answer would still be the same.
“No, I won’t stop.”
Her eyes widened and for a moment he almost thought it was in betrayal.
Then she tilted her chin up and glared at him, her eyes blazing. “Very well. I suppose that is your choice after all.”
He knew that she wasn’t done, that whatever she said next he truly would not like.
Still it was a blow, a hit delivered directly to the belly, when she said, “Just as it is my choice to find Roger’s murderer … and kill him.”
Chapter Eight
Faith looked up and saw before them a black, swirling river that stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see. The Hellequin never hesitated but rode his great black horse directly into the river. Faith took a firmer grip on his shoulders and looked down as the horse began to swim. There in the inky water she saw strange, white wispy forms drifting past, and the longer she stared, the more they seemed nearly human. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
The second time Godric woke that day it was to the sound of muffled giggles. He glanced at his window and from the angle of the light shining in estimated it to be late afternoon. Apparently, he’d slept the day away after his catastrophic argument with Megs. Remembering her avowal to traipse into St. Giles and attempt to kill the murderer of her damned dead lover made his head start to pound.
She was his wife.
It was his duty to protect her, to keep her from her own folly, and he would’ve done that even if he hadn’t grown rather … fond of her in the last several days.
The stab of pain behind his left eye at that thought was quite awful.
Godric sighed and rose carefully. Moulder had patched him up the night before, muttering all the while that the wound was but a tiny thing, hardly worth the effort. It didn’t feel tiny as all that today, though. He had trouble lifting his left arm to put on a shirt, and it took him awhile to don stockings, breeches, and shoes. Still, Godric acknowledged that he’d had much worse injuries in the past.
There’d been times when he’d not risen from bed for days.
He shrugged on his waistcoat, buttoned it, and left his toilet at that for the moment, crossing to the door that connected with his wife’s room. Another husky laugh sparked his curiosity and he knocked once before opening the door.
Megs sat on the round carpet by her bed, her skirts a pool of apple green and pink about her. The four little maids recently apprenticed from the home squatted beside her like acolytes to a particularly pretty pagan priestess, and on her lap was the cause of their mirth: a squirming, fat, ratlike thing.
Megs looked up at his entrance, her face shining. For a moment he caught his breath—it was almost like a light radiated from within her, and he was very glad that she’d apparently decided not to hold their argument against him.
“Oh, Godric, come see! Her Grace has had her puppies.” And she held out the ratlike thing—which, apparently, was a pug puppy—like a peace offering.
Godric raised his brows, sinking into a chair. “It’s quite … lovely?”
“Oh, pooh!” She retracted her arms, cuddling the tiny creature against her cheek. “Don’t listen to Mr. St. John,” she whispered to the puppy as if in confidence. “You’re the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”
All four maids giggled.
Godric raised an eyebrow, replying mildly, “I said it was lovely.”
His wife’s laughing brown eyes peeked at him over the soft fawn creature. “Yes, but your tone said the opposite.”
He started to shrug, but the sudden bite at his shoulder made him regret the movement.
He thought he’d suppressed the wince, but Megs’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you, girls. Mary Compassion, could you take the other Marys downstairs? I’m sure Mrs. Crumb has need of you now.”
The girls looked a bit disappointed, but they rose obediently and left the bedroom, trailing the eldest.
Megs waited until the door closed behind them. “How are you?”
She held the puppy to her face almost like a shield against him, and he wished she’d put the animal down so he could see her expression.
“Well enough,” he replied.
She nodded, meeting his gaze at last. Tears sparkled in her eyes and his chest tightened. “I’m so very, very sorry that I hurt you.”