Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(38)

He opened his eyes and rolled to his back.

Or started to. The immediate stab of pain brought the events of last night flooding back. Sweet Megs with the bountiful breasts had stabbed him and she knew he was the Ghost of St. Giles. His life had just become a great deal more complicated.

Megs stood, clad in a fresh apple green and pink frock, puttering about near his dresser. He watched as she placed the pitcher in the washbasin, then picked up the small dish that he used for spare coins and turned it over, staring at the bottom. She wandered to the mantelpiece and, apparently without thinking, set the dish down on the corner where the slightest nudge would send it crashing to the tiles below.

He must’ve made some sound.

She turned, her face brightening. “You’re awake.”

He sat up, repressing a wince of pain. “It would seem so.”

“Oh.” She trailed her fingertips along the mantel, frowning at the jar of spills that stood at the opposite end from the dish. She plucked out a spill, twisting it between her fingers. “Are you better? You certainly look better. You were as white as a … well, a ghost last night.”

He swallowed. “Megs …”

She tossed the spill onto the mantel and turned to face him, her shoulders square, her chin level. It was the exact same stance she’d taken that first night when she’d shot at him. “Griffin told me last night that he forced you to marry me.”

That wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear from her. He cocked his head, considering her as he replied cautiously, “Yes, he did.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry. He should’ve never done that.”

“Shouldn’t he have?” he asked, his voice sharp. “He’s your brother, Megs, and you were in dire straits. I may not’ve particularly liked being blackmailed by Griffin, but I’ve never questioned his reasons for doing it.”

“Oh.” She scowled down at the toes of her slippers as if they’d somehow offended her. “But even understanding the whole mess, you must hate me anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His tone and words were more irritable than he wanted them to be, but his back was throbbing. “You know I’d never blame you for—”

“Do I?” She threw her head back, her dark eyes shining, her hair already beginning to struggle out of its confines as she started pacing in front of his fireplace. “Until yesterday evening I thought I knew you. I thought you were a staid, elderly scholar who lived by himself in a much too dusty mansion and once in a while for a bit of excitement went out to coffeehouses. And then”—she spun at the far end of the room, waving her hands as if battling birds were attacking her head—“and then I find that you’re a notorious madman who runs about in a ridiculous mask and gets into fights with footpads in St. Giles, and, Godric, I really, truly don’t think I know you at all now.”

She stopped dead and glared at him, her breast heaving. Dear God, she was magnificent when she was in a rage.

He cleared his throat. “Elderly?”

“Elderly?” She mimicked him in a horribly high voice, which he privately thought was a bit unfair—he didn’t sound at all like that. “That’s all you can say? I saw you kill that footpad the first night I was in London.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How many?”

“What?”

Her lower lip was trembling, the sight much more troubling to him than her anger. Megs in a rage was wonderful. Megs fearful wasn’t something he ever wanted to see. “How many have you killed, Godric?”

He looked away from that vulnerable mouth. “I don’t know.”

“How”—she stopped and inhaled, steadying her voice—“how can you not know how many people you’ve killed, Godric?”

He wasn’t a coward, so he lifted his head and met her gaze, silently letting her see the answer in his eyes.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “But they were all bad, weren’t they?” She couldn’t hide the uncertainty in her voice. She was trying to persuade herself—and failing. “All … all the people you killed, they were like the footpad—you saved others by killing them.”

He could see in her eyes the desire to believe that he wasn’t entirely a monster. So he made it easy for her, though he knew there was no clear line in St. Giles. No true black and white. Yes, there were murderers and thieves, those who preyed upon the weaker … but those same murderers and thieves often sought to feed themselves or others.

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—”