Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(37)

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.

Good God. Megs forced herself to look away as she set the cloths, brandy, and kettle on a table. She felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t piece together the Godric she’d thought she knew and the living, breathing man before her.

It was too much.

Godric half turned his head, presenting his strong nose, lips, and jaw in profile, as if he sensed her confusion. “Moulder will take care of this. I’m sure you’re tired.”

“But”—she gestured helplessly—“I’d like to help.”

“No need, m’lady.” Moulder turned to open the wooden box, revealing several sharp knives, scissors, needles, and thread. He took out a needle and examined the thread already on it. “’Tis a messy business you’ll not like.”

Well of course she wouldn’t like seeing Godric sewn up, but she felt—she wanted—to stay and … and just comfort him.

“Megs,” Godric said, his tone commanding. “Please. Go to bed.”

He didn’t say it, but she could tell: She was in the way. He didn’t need her comfort.

“Very well, then,” she said, trying to sound practical. “Good night.”

And she made her feet cross to the door and enter her own room.

GODRIC CAME AWAKE slowly the next morning to the persistent ache of his back. For a moment he lay with his eyes closed, remembering the fading wisps of a dream about sunshine and a blooming tree. Megs had been sitting in the tree, her salmon-colored skirts bunched about her. She’d leaned down toward him, laughing, and her bodice had parted, spilling her sweet, round titties into his face. Godric realized both that he was no longer dreaming and that he’d woken with a stiff cock.

And that someone was in his room.

No. That Megs was in his room.

He lay there, trying to reason logically how he simply knew that it was Megs. But in the end he had to give up the effort without result. It seemed that the part of himself that recognized his wife’s presence wasn’t accessible from his intellect.