Lord of Darkness

But she rose swiftly and he gave her an ironic glance before climbing awkwardly into the bed. He sat back against the tall, carved headboard and watched as she disrobed. It was perforce a slow process, but somehow the more erotic for that. First came off the gauzy fichu that had been wrapped around her shoulders and tucked into the low bodice of her gown. She sat and removed her slippers and then rolled down her stockings. He might’ve seen her entirely nude, but the sight of her pale, slender ankles, the swells of her bosom as she leaned forward made him catch his breath.



He palmed his cock, watching.



She stood, not looking at him, and began undoing the bodice of her gown. It was a simple day dress, so she was able to take it off herself, the skirts suddenly collapsing about her ankles. She untied her petticoats and stepped free, in just her stays and chemise now. The chemise was very fine and he could make out the shadowy curves of her legs and hips as she turned to pick up the skirts, the dark triangle cradled between her thighs as she straightened.



He groaned under his breath, passing his palm over the head of his cock to gather the liquid seeping there before he stroked firmly down.



She glanced up at him then and stilled, her eyes seemingly caught by his hand slowly gliding up his cock.



His flesh jerked under his fingers.



She blinked and ducked her head, studying her own hands as she began unlacing her stays. But he could see her slyly peeking now and again as she worked.



He bent his far knee and angled himself so that she could see better and was rewarded by her breath hitching softly. His hand made a slicking sound as he watched her slowly open her stays. She looked up again and drew the whole thing over her head, leaving her in the chemise, wrinkles pressed into the nearly transparent fabric from the stays. The top was tightened with a simple ribbon and she plucked the bow undone, gradually drawing it loose. He licked his lips, growling softly when he saw the smile she tried to hide. She was teasing him, enticing him with the slow unveiling of her body.



But then she bent and took off the chemise, throwing it aside, standing like a wild nymph startled by the hunter. Her breasts were full but proudly high, the tips flushed a deep cherry. Her creamy belly was soft, flowing into the sweet curves of her hips. He branded the image into his brain.



“Come here,” he said, his voice degraded into a gravelly growl.



She stepped forward, her lips curved mysteriously, cheeks flushed, but chin tilted confidently. She crawled onto the bed beside him, and then sat back on her knees.



“Here,” he said, indicating his lap with his chin, lowering his bent leg.



She looked uncertain but straddled him, her soft thighs brushing against both his legs and the knuckles of his hand. He let go of himself and brought his damp fingers to her cheek. He should wipe them off on the sheets, they still held the liquid from his body, but some part of him relished the idea of marking her with his scent.



He curved his hand around her neck and brought her lips to his. She opened sweetly for him, accepting his tongue into her mouth as he licked into her, slanting his head to draw her closer. He could feel the tantalizing whisper of her nipples against his chest, the wetness of her cunny as she settled on his thighs just behind his cock. He nearly raised his left hand to grip her hip before remembering and cursing his infirmity.



In the end he had to break the kiss instead. “Slide forward.”



She looked uncertain and he realized that her lover may never have taken her like this—they’d not had much time together.



He should not have felt glad at that thought.



She rose on her knees above him, looking down, and their fingers tangled on his cock. He watched and felt as she lowered herself, slowly sheathing herself on him, her soft pink folds parting and accepting him within herself. The fit was tight and good, and he had to resist the urge to buck up into her, to end this too soon.



She licked her lips, her eyes dark, and looked at him inquiringly.



He let his hand fall, answering the unspoken question. “Do as you wish.”



Her eyes narrowed speculatively at his words and she cautiously rose. His cock slid deliciously partway from her body. She moved against him slowly like this for several minutes as if discovering and judging each new angle. It was sweet.



Sweetly torturing.



Finally he broke, fisting his good hand in the coverlet as she ground down against him once more, not fast enough, not hard enough. “More.”



She glanced at his face and her lips curved in a secret smile as old as Eve’s before she leaned down, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, her hands braced on his shoulders. “Like this?”



And she rode him, like a goddess triumphant, her face shining, her cunny gripping him fast and wet. He stared at her, even as his muscles tensed, even as he felt his lips draw back in a grimace of sexual bliss. She was too controlled, too assessing, and he was nearing his edge.



He caught her hand, bringing it to where they joined, pressing her fingers to her softness as her hips shuddered and lost their rhythm. “Touch yourself.”



He’d made it worse for himself; he knew it the moment her fingers curled into her pretty cunny. Her lips parted moistly, her head thrown back as she began to stroke herself, and it took everything he had to keep from spilling. To watch her pleasure herself as she rode his cock and not end this too soon.



“That’s it, darling,” he whispered low, coaching her, wanting to see her bring herself to fulfillment. “It’s sweet, isn’t it? Touching yourself, letting me watch. Do you like it? Do you enjoy putting on a show for me? Parting your pretty lips, letting me see how moist you’ve become, fucking yourself on me?”



The crudity seemed to jolt something within her. Her eyes widened, her back arched, and he felt the muscles of her sheath grip him tight, so tight.



Right before he lost control himself.



Chapter Sixteen



The great black horse came down off the Peak of Whispers and Faith saw before them a vast, barren plain, stretching as far as the eye could see.



“Is this Hell?” she murmured in the Hellequin’s ear. He shook his head. “This is the Plain of Madness. It will take us two days to cross it.”



She shivered and huddled closer to the Hellequin’s big form, for even with the cloak it was growing colder. And as she did so, she looked down and saw white wisps swirling aimlessly in the dust on the ground. …



—From The Legend of the Hellequin



“Sir.”



Godric came fully awake in the darkness of his own bedroom, aware that it’d been Moulder whispering.



He blinked at the manservant, raising his eyebrows as the man merely tilted his head toward the hallway. Moulder was dressed in a rather ornate orange banyan and tasseled cap and held a single candlestick in his hand.



Godric pulled the coverlet more securely around Megs’s shoulders and slipped carefully from the bed. He quickly donned breeches, shirt, and banyan and then padded out of the room after Moulder.



“What is it?” he asked once they had made the hallway without waking Megs.



“Mr. Makepeace,” Moulder replied. “He’s here and he insisted on speaking with you, despite the hour.”



Godric could think of only one reason for the home’s manager to call on him in the middle of the night. “Show me.”



They descended the stairs silently to the ground floor.



Makepeace turned as they entered the study. “I’m sorry to disturb you, St. John.” He eyed Moulder, standing beside the closed door, for a moment before raising his brows. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”



“No need.” Godric gestured to one of the wing chairs in the room, waiting for his guest to seat himself before taking one. “Moulder is in my confidence.”



“Ah.” Makepeace nodded. “Then I shall come straight to the point. Alf told me not more than an hour ago that she had found the last workshop.”



Godric was up at once, stripping off the banyan. “Moulder, give me a hand here. We’ll have to take off the boards on my wrist.”



“Is that wise?” Makepeace was looking worriedly at his immobilized arm.



“We can’t wait—Alf might try to rescue her friend by herself.” Godric arched an eyebrow. “Unless you think we can persuade the third one of us to come and rescue the girls?” At Makepeace’s frown, he shook his head. “I’m our only choice. The wrist has healed well enough. If Moulder can fashion a smaller, softer brace—”



“Godric?”



All three men looked up at the sound of the study door opening. Megs stood there, her glorious hair tumbled about her shoulders, a hand at her throat holding her wrapper closed, and Godric immediately wondered if that was the only thing she wore.



But his lady wife had other matters on her mind. She came into the room and shut the door behind her. “What is happening, Godric?”



Moulder had found a sharp knife but was standing frozen. Godric took the knife and began awkwardly cutting the bindings holding the two boards on his left arm. “I have to go out.”



“May I?” Makepeace was beside him and Godric nodded, handing the knife over so the other man could work more ably on the bindings.



“As the Ghost of St. Giles?” Megs whispered.



“Yes.” Godric kept his eyes on the work that Makepeace was doing.



“You can’t.” He could feel her stepping closer; then her hand was on his shoulder. “Godric! This is madness. You’ve only begun to heal. You’ll break your wrist again if you go out, and who knows if the doctor will be able to set it. You could be crippled for life—assuming you’re not killed.” He heard her huff of desperate exasperation and then she was addressing Makepeace. “Why are you making him do this?”



The home’s manager widened his eyes. “I …”



“Because I’m the only one who can do this.” Godric looked at her finally. Megs didn’t know Makepeace had been a Ghost once, but it didn’t matter: the man had sworn to his lady wife not to take up the swords again. “Megs, there are little girls in peril.”



She closed her eyes at that, visibly fighting something within herself. “Can you promise that this will be the last time? That you won’t be the Ghost of St. Giles anymore?”



He watched as the last strap was cut away, freeing his arm. The swelling had gone down, but there were nasty purple-black bruises around the wrist. He didn’t dare try flexing it. Moulder brought forth an old pair of stays they’d previously cut down to fit from his knuckles to his elbow in preparation for his next trip to St. Giles. He began binding it onto Godric’s arm.



“Godric?”



“No.” He didn’t dare look at her. “No, I cannot promise that.”



“Then promise me you’ll return alive and whole.”



He couldn’t do such a thing. She knew that. Yet he found himself saying, “I promise.”



The door opened and shut quietly.



Makepeace cleared his throat. “Perhaps if I alerted the dragoons—”



“We’ve been over this. Trevillion would take hours to agree—if he could be persuaded at all—and then hours more to mobilize his men.” He met the other man’s gaze. “Are you willing to risk the workshop moving again—or the girls being killed to cover the evidence?”



Makepeace flinched. “No.”



Godric looked down just as Moulder tied off the last binding. He swung the arm experimentally. If he made sure to favor it, it should do all right. “In that case, perhaps you can help me get ready?”



“Very well,” the home’s manager said. “And then we’ll need to plan a way to get past the dragoon standing guard over your house.”



“He’s still there?”



“Oh, indeed,” Makepeace said drily. “And he no doubt saw my arrival.”



Godric contemplated that fact while Moulder finished dressing him in his Ghost costume. When he sheathed his sword five minutes later, he nodded to Makepeace. “Come with me.”