Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(84)

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.”

And she opened her mouth over him. She’d never done this—although she’d wanted to before. She’d always been too shy, too worried that he’d think her sluttish or not like what she did.

But here, now, she simply didn’t care anymore.

She trailed a line of kisses down his length, marveling at the pulsing warmth within him, then licked up the strong tendon on the underside.

He muttered something and his hips jerked under her arms, half lifting her.

She wanted to tell him to never go back to St. Giles. That she’d find Roger’s killer herself. That she couldn’t bear anymore to see him hurt. But she’d already told him that before and it hadn’t changed his mind. She couldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t allow her that far in.

But he would allow this.

She mouthed around the thick head of his cock, tasting the tang of his skin. She pulled back to stare at him as he’d stared at her once. The tiny slit at the top of his penis was leaking, and she drew her thumb through the clear liquid, smearing it about the soft skin.

The strong length in her hands jumped.

She smiled when she felt that and leaned down to kiss the very tip, the warm wetness smearing across her lips. She looked up and saw that the color was high across his cheekbones and his eyelids half shielded his glittering gray eyes. Still watching, she took the head of his cock into her mouth and suckled.

His nostrils flared and he bit his lip, but he did no more, staring back at her as she opened her mouth and licked slowly around the head. Later she would be embarrassed by her boldness.