Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(35)

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.

Godric raised his head, eyes narrowed in anger as he pulled her into his chest, shielding her nudity. Megs made a distressed, embarrassed sound and hid her face in his shoulder.

And just like that, his anger became real.

“What in God’s name is the meaning of this?” he growled.

He doubted very much that Captain Trevillion was used to blushing, but damned if the man’s cheeks didn’t darken. “I … uh … I am Captain James Trevillion of the 4th Dragoons. I’m charged with capturing the Ghost of St. Giles. One of my men thought he saw the Ghost enter this carriage. If you—”

“I don’t care if you’re charged with capturing the Pretender himself,” Godric whispered. “Get out of my carriage before I carve your eyes out and use—”

But Trevillion was already muttering an apology as he withdrew. The carriage door slammed.

Megs straightened.

“Wait,” Godric murmured, stilling her with a hand on her soft, bare back.

Trevillion might be red-faced, but the man was nothing if not canny.

Only when the carriage started forward did he let Megs slip from his lap.

“That was clever,” she whispered. “How is your back?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, equally low. No one could hear them over the carriage wheels, yet somehow it felt right to whisper. His eyes dropped to her gaping bodice. One nipple was reddened and still moist. He averted his eyes, swallowing. His erection, silly thing, didn’t know the show was over. “I’m sorry about your dress.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she retorted, though he thought her cheeks had pinkened. Had she arched into his mouth of her own excitement … or because she was playacting? “Let me see your back.”

He sighed and leaned forward, wincing. In the little time that he’d been sitting with his back pressed against the squabs, the blood had begun to dry. Movement reopened the wound, for he could feel the hot wash down his back.

She drew a sharp breath. “Your entire back is wet with blood.”

Her voice was trembling.

“It’s a small wound,” he said soothingly. “Blood is often more dramatic, I’ve found, than the injury that produces it.”

That earned him an odd look, equal parts worry, doubt, and curiosity.

Then she reached around his back, pressing something on the wound, making the pain flare. The movement pushed her breasts into his arm and for a moment he closed his eyes.

“Godric,” she whispered urgently. “Godric!”

He opened his eyes to find her face only inches from his, and he had a mad urge to pull her back into his lap and make her arch under his mouth again.

He blinked and the carriage seemed to dip and sway.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Megs was muttering in a distressed tone as she fumbled with his back. Whatever she was doing didn’t seem to be stopping the bleeding. “We’ll need a doctor. I can send for one as soon as we reach home.”

“No doctor.” He was shaking his head but had to stop when nausea closed his throat. “Moulder.”

“What?” She glanced at him distractedly, her eyes dipping to his lips and back up again. “If I’d known the Ghost was you, I’d never have stabbed you.”

“Sometimes he’s not,” Godric said, and could tell by her confused expression that she didn’t understand him. His words were slurring, but he had a sudden intense urge to make her understand one thing. “I didn’t kill Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”

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.