“Come on.” The girl led the way, winding through the alleys of St. Giles. She didn’t try to move up into the rooftops, which Godric was grateful for. He might be able to fight with one hand, but he didn’t want to try climbing.
They were in a narrow tunnel, approaching a courtyard, when Alf stopped short. Godric could see movement in the courtyard beyond her, but only her cry made him realize what was happening.
“They’re taking away the lassies!”
At once he pushed past her. If the girls were moved, they might never find them again.
A man, obviously a guard, stood by as a tall, thin woman dragged two girls from a low cellar. Two more waited dispiritedly at the other end of the courtyard.
Godric charged the guard silently, dodging a blow made too late as the guard realized his danger and then hitting the man in the temple with the butt of his sword.
The guard crumpled, immobile.
The woman screamed, high and shrill, and two more men emerged from the cellar. Fortunately the door was so narrow they could exit only one at a time. Godric ran one through and caught the other by the arm, swinging him hard into the wall. The man’s head bounced off the brick with a wet sound.
He turned to the woman to see if she would attack, but she was already running out the far side of the courtyard. The girls were huddled together. One was crying, but the others were apparently too petrified to make a sound.
A scrape came from behind him, and Godric twisted around only just in time: a fourth man had already emerged.
And this one had a sword.
Godric parried the strike. The blades slid along each other, screeching, and then broke apart. Godric backed a pace, watching the swordsman advance. Only aristocrats were allowed by law to carry swords. He tried to catch a glimpse of the other man’s face, but he wore a tricorne and had wound his neck cloth around the lower half of his face.
Then he had no more time to ponder his attacker’s face. The man was on him, his sword flashing with compact, deadly intensity—expert intensity.
Godric knew if he backed any farther, he’d be cornered. He feinted left and ducked right, hearing the rip of his cloak as he just managed to pass the other man. He whirled to repel a savage thrust and then lunged for the other man’s exposed flank. His opponent curved to the side, his arm outthrust. Godric felt the blade tip run a line up the entire length of his right arm, searing like a brand. His sleeve flapped open and warmth began to run down his arm, but the cut must not’ve been deep—he could still use the arm. Godric attacked again. He thrust into the other’s face, making the man arch back. His blade was caught, but he jerked it free, circling as he did so, trying to yank the other’s sword from his hand. But the man leaped back, recovering, his blade still in his grip. The swordsman’s neck cloth slipped and for a moment Godric looked him full in the face.
Then the swordsman stabbed to Godric’s right and too late Godric realized it was a feint. He wasn’t quick enough to parry the sword thrust with his blade, but he brought his left arm up, catching the blow on his elbow.
His entire arm sang with agony.
His opponent turned and leaped away, running toward the alley on the farther side of the courtyard. Godric instinctively lunged after the man, the need to give chase and bring down his prey driving strong. His left arm was throbbing hard, though, and he remembered the promise he’d made to Megs. He’d said he’d return unharmed and alive.
Well, at least he was alive.
He turned wearily back to the children in time to see Alf kneel in front of a small, grimy redheaded girl. Alf was scowling fiercely, perhaps in an attempt to keep from seeming like she cared as she tenderly wiped the child’s tearstained face.
The sight almost made his heart lighten. He tried to tell himself that the girls were rescued and that was the main thing, but it didn’t lift the leaden weight in his chest. He’d seen the face of his attacker, the man responsible for enslaving children in St. Giles, the man he’d let escape alive, and Godric knew that the man was near untouchable. He’d never be brought to justice.
For the swordsman had been the Earl of Kershaw.
THERE WAS BLOOD on Godric.
Megs couldn’t think, couldn’t see beyond that one stark fact. She stood stock-still for an awful, endless minute after he opened the door to his bedroom, simply staring at the long bandage on his right arm and the slit, bloody sleeve that hung, flapping. She’d been waiting there, awake and pacing, ever since he’d left, and the room was in a bit of a mess—not that she cared. Moulder was behind him and Godric was saying something, but she couldn’t hear.
“Get out,” she told the manservant, unable to even phrase the order politely.
Moulder took one look at her and fled.
Godric wasn’t so smart. He was frowning slightly now and saying something about a minor cut and looks worse than it is, and Moulder has already seen to it, despite the fact that anyone could see he was holding his left arm stiffly as well, and she just wanted to hit him.
Instead she grabbed his face in both of her hands and stood on tiptoe to bring her mouth to his. She kissed him savagely, her lips wide, her tongue demanding wet access to his mouth, and it was a damned good thing he opened at once, because she would’ve bitten him if he hadn’t. She heard him groan and then his arms started to wrap around her, but she wasn’t having any of it.
She broke free to attack the falls of his Ghost costume. “You lied to me.”
“I came back alive,” he said in a soothing voice. At least he never pretended that he didn’t know the reason for her anger.
“I said alive and whole,” she snapped, finally wrenching two buttons off. “That is not whole.”
“Megs,” he started, no doubt to make some stupid male excuse, and she shoved him none too gently into the one straight-backed chair.
She wasn’t strong enough to manhandle him—she knew that somewhere in the back of her maddened brain. He must be conceding to her anger, letting her push him about.
Perversely it only made her madder.
She dropped to her knees, roughly spreading his legs and shuffling forward between them.
His eyes widened, which, at any other time she might’ve taken pride in. The man had been the Ghost of St. Giles for years—there mustn’t be many things that could surprise him.
“What—”
She reached forward and yanked open his fall and the smallclothes beneath, watching in satisfaction as his cock bobbed out, ruddy and half hard.
She took his length gently between her hands, her arms resting on his thighs, and looked up into his face. “I’m very, very angry with you.”