For his Meggie he would walk the fires of Hell.
It took another half hour to reach Kershaw’s London town house. It stood in a modern square, white stone town houses on all sides, elegant and reserved. The moon was waning now, coyly hiding behind her cloudy veils. Godric approached Kershaw’s residence cautiously, sliding in and out of the shadows, searching for any sign of movement from the house.
He was surprised when the front door opened.
Godric stilled, half hidden in the shadows by the stairs leading to the front door of a house across the way. He watched as Kershaw appeared on his step. The earl stood there, looking around impatiently, and Godric felt his hands fist. A carriage rolled around the corner and Kershaw got in.
Godric frowned, considering his options. No matter what else happened, he had to kill Kershaw and fast, before the man had a chance to hurt Megs.
He decided to follow the carriage, trailing it as it moved east. The roads in London were narrow and sometimes crowded, even at night, so he hauled himself up the corner of a building, grunting at the twinge from his left wrist, and followed by rooftop. Still Godric lost the carriage twice and had to scramble over sliding tiles to keep up, cursing under his breath until he caught sight of the thing again. He considered the destination of his prey as he panted along. Was Kershaw going to a ball or the theater? If so, Godric would have to cool his heels waiting for the man. On the other hand, such events were often crowded with carriages jockeying to either deposit or pick up their occupants. Perhaps he could catch the man unawares in a crowd. This wouldn’t be a noble duel.
If need be, Godric would stab the earl in the back.
But it soon became apparent that the carriage was making for St. Giles, which meant this certainly wasn’t a social outing. Was the earl scouting new locations for his workshops? Godric shook his head. The man was engorged with hubris if he thought he could simply set up shop again in St. Giles.
Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped outside a dingy building that was all but leaning against its neighbor. There was no sign to indicate a shop, but a single lantern lit the low doorway, almost as if Kershaw had been expected. Godric lowered himself carefully to the ground and paused in the jut of a low wall, watching as a woman emerged from the building. She was tall and bony, and when she turned, the lantern light fell upon her face and he recognized the slattern who’d been at the third workshop. She stood, arms akimbo, and said something to Kershaw, still in the carriage. There was a pause and she threw up her hands, turning as if angered. At that, the carriage door flew open and Kershaw emerged to hit her across the face, nearly knocking her down. She steadied herself, though, and went back into the shop.
There were two footmen on the back of the carriage and they descended as well, spreading out on either side of Kershaw. He’d brought guards. For himself or something—or someone—else?
The door to the crumbling building opened again and the slattern came back out, grasping a little girl in each hand. But they weren’t who the guards were there for. Behind her was a third tough, both hands gripping tightly a much smaller figure in front of him. She was slim and held herself defiantly, but her face was bruised and she’d lost her old hat.
Alf. They had Alf.
If he waited until they got her into the carriage, he might lose the carriage—and both her and the little girls. Alf had said that the lassie snatchers wanted her dead, and he was surprised that she was still alive. He would’ve thought they’d kill her on sight.
There was no other choice.
Godric charged the tableau.
The guard closest to him still had his back to Godric. A quick thrust with his short sword under the man’s ribs dispatched him, though it sent agonizing shards of pain up Godric’s wrist.
“You!” Godric looked up to see Kershaw, face inflamed with rage, shouting at him. “Kill him!”
The earl didn’t wait to see if his orders would be obeyed. He drew his sword as Godric rushed him and brought it up, repelling Godric’s initial thrust. Godric pivoted past him as their swords locked, making sure to keep his back away from Kershaw’s guards.
Faintly he could hear the sounds of horses approaching.
Then Godric concentrated on killing Kershaw. He felt the jar to his shoulder as he pushed against the other man, making him fall back. He jabbed at the earl’s middle, then his head, moving fast, not giving Kershaw time to gather himself to make his own attack. The earl’s eyes were wide, his mouth open and panting, his lips wet. Kershaw feinted to Godric’s left and then kicked viciously at his knee. Godric moved, taking the blow on his outer thigh instead. But the earl had expected him to go down. His thrust had gone past Godric, and for a second Kershaw was overextended, his long sword of no use. Godric brought up his short sword and pressed it into the soft skin just under the earl’s right arm.
Kershaw froze, eyes widening.
A shot rang out.
Godric glanced over his shoulder and met Captain Trevillion’s cold blue eyes. They were surrounded by dragoons on horseback, all of them aiming pistols at his head.
“Hold hard, Ghost.”
MEGS WOKE GASPING in the dark, heart beating hard, breath strangled in her throat, and knew at once that something was wrong. Shreds of her nightmare still lingered, a haunting vision of Godric caught in a black oily pit, slowly being sucked down while she did nothing.
Did nothing while her husband’s mouth and nostrils were covered in obsidian slime, his eyes staring back stoically at her even as he drowned.
Oh, God. She sat up in his big bed, glancing around wildly, even though she knew he wasn’t here. Where was he? She needed to find him, needed to place her hands on his chest and feel for herself that his heart still beat, that he was well.
She rose, hurriedly throwing on his banyan and lighting a candle from the embers still glowing on the hearth.
She looked first in her own room, a quick glance as she hurried past. The next place was the downstairs library. Perhaps he’d woken in the night and been unable to sleep? Perhaps he was even now dozing in a chair before the fireplace, that silly, stupid tasseled hat on his dear, dear head. She sobbed and realized that she’d broken into a near-panicked run.
He wasn’t in the library.
She sagged against the door, pressing the back of her hand to her weeping mouth.
He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here.
She tried his study last because hope died hard and she had to see for herself before she acknowledged what she already knew.
The study was quiet, the door to his hidden closet ajar. She could see that his Ghost costume was gone and she knew, knew what she had done. Megs pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a wail of horror.
She’d abandoned a living man for a dead one.