The Serpent Prince Read online

  “Haven’t the foggiest.” Simon opened his eyes wide. “Perhaps I had the good fortune to be attacked by industrious thieves. Not content to leave me lie where I fell, they spirited me off here so I might see more of the world.”

  “Humph. I doubt they meant for you to see anything ever again,” she said quellingly.

  “Mmm. And wouldn’t that’ve been a shame?” he asked in false innocence. “For then I wouldn’t have met you.” The lady raised a brow and opened her mouth again, no doubt to practice her inquisition skills on him, but Simon beat her to it. “You did say there was tea about? I know I spoke of it disparagingly before, but really, I wouldn’t mind a drop or two.”

  His angel actually flushed, a pale rose wash coloring her white cheeks. Ah, a weakness. “I’m sorry. Here, let me help you sit up.”

  She placed cool little hands on his arms—an unsettlingly erotic touch—and between them they managed to get him upright; although, by the time they did so, Simon was panting, and not just from her. His shoulder felt like little devils, or maybe saints in his case, were poking red-hot irons into it. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, there was a cup of tea under his nose. He reached for it, then stopped and stared at his bare right hand. His signet ring was missing. They’d stolen his ring.

  She mistook the reason for his hesitation. “The tea is fresh, I assure you.”

  “Most kind.” His voice was embarrassingly weak. His hand shook as he grasped the cup, the familiar clink of his ring against the porcelain absent. He hadn’t taken it off since Ethan’s death. “Damn.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll hold it for you.” Her tone was soft, low and intimate, though she probably didn’t know it. He could rest on that voice, float away on it and let his cares cease.

  Dangerous woman.

  Simon swallowed the lukewarm tea. “Would you mind terribly writing a letter for me?”

  “Of course not.” She set the cup down and withdrew safely to her chair. “To whom would you like to write?”

  “My valet, I think. Bound to be teased if I alert any of my acquaintances.”

  “And we certainly wouldn’t want that.” There was laughter in her voice.

  He looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent. “I’m glad you understand the problem,” he said dryly. Actually, he was more worried that his enemies would learn that he was still alive. “My valet can bring down miscellaneous things like clean clothes, a horse, and money.”

  She laid aside her still-open book. “His name?”

  Simon tilted his head, but he couldn’t see the book’s page from this angle. “Henry. At 207 Cross Road, London. What were you writing before?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She didn’t look up.

  Irritating. “In your book. What were you writing?”

  She hesitated, the pencil immobile on the letter, her head still bent down.

  Simon kept his expression light, though he grew infinitely more interested.

  There was a silence as she finished scratching out the address; then she laid it aside and looked up at him. “I was sketching, actually.” She reached for the open book and placed it on his lap.

  Drawings or cartoons covered the left page, some big, some small. A little bent man carrying a basket. A leafless tree. A gate with one hinge broken. On the right was a single sketch of a man asleep. Himself. And not looking his best, what with the bandage and all. It was an odd feeling, knowing she had watched him sleep.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Not at all. Glad to be of some use.” Simon turned back a page. Here, some of the drawings had been embellished by a watercolor wash. “These are quite good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Simon felt his lips curve at her sure reply. Most ladies feigned modesty when complimented on an accomplishment. Miss Craddock-Hayes was certain of her talent. He turned another page.

  “What’s this?” The sketches on this page were of a tree changing with the seasons: winter, spring, summer, and fall.

  The rose tinted her cheeks again. “They’re practice sketches. For a small book of prayers I want to give Mrs. Hardy in the village. It’s to be a present on her birthday.”

  “Do you do this often?” He turned another page, fascinated. These weren’t the pallid drawings of a bored lady. Her sketches had a kind of robust life to them. “Illustrate books, that is?” His mind was furiously working.

  She shrugged. “No, not often. I only do it for friends and such.”

  “Then maybe I can commission a work.” He looked up in time to see her open her mouth. He continued before she could point out that he didn’t fall under the heading friends. “A book for my niece.”

  She closed her mouth and raised her eyebrows, waiting silently for him to continue.

  “If you don’t mind humoring a wounded man, of course.” Shameless. For some reason it was important that he engage her.

  “What kind of a book?”

  “Oh, a fairy tale, I think. Don’t you?”

  She took back her book and settled it on her lap, slowly turning to a blank page. “Yes?”

  Oh, Christ, now he was on the spot, but at the same time he felt like laughing aloud. He hadn’t felt this lighthearted in ages. Simon glanced hurriedly around the little room and caught sight of a small, framed map on the opposite wall. Sea serpents frolicked around the edges of the print. He smiled into her eyes. “The tale of the Serpent Prince.”

  Her gaze dropped to his lips and then hastily up again. His smile grew wider. Ah, even an angel could be tempted.

  But she only arched a brow at him. “I’ve never heard it.”

  “I’m surprised,” he lied easily. “It was quite a favorite of my youth. Brings back fond memories, that, of bouncing on my old nurse’s knee by the fire while she thrilled us with the tale.” In for a penny, in for a pound.

  She gave him a patently skeptical look.

  “Now let me see.” Simon stifled a yawn. The pain in his shoulder had died to a dull throb, but his headache had increased as if to make up for it. “Once upon a time—that’s the prescribed way to begin, isn’t it?”

  The lady didn’t help. She merely sat back in her chair and waited for him to make a fool of himself.

  “There lived a poor lass who made a meager living tending the king’s goats. She was orphaned and quite alone in the world, except, of course, for the goats, who were rather smelly.”

  “Goats?”

  “Goats. The king was fond of goat cheese. Now hush, child, if you want to hear this.” Simon tilted his head back. It was aching terribly. “I believe her name was Angelica, if that’s of any interest—the goat girl, that is.”

  She merely nodded this time. She’d picked up a pencil and had begun sketching in her book, although he couldn’t see the page, so he didn’t know if she was illustrating his story or not.

  “Angelica toiled every day, from the first light of dawn until the sun had long set, and all she had for company were the goats. The king’s castle was built on top of a cliff, and the goat girl lived at the foot of the cliff in a little stick hut. If she looked far, far up, past the sheer rocks, past the shining white stone of the castle walls to the very turrets, sometimes she could just catch a glimpse of the castle folk in their jewels and fine robes. And once in a very great while, she would see the prince.”

  “The Serpent Prince?”

  “No.”

  She cocked her head, her eyes still on her drawing. “Then why is the fairy tale called The Serpent Prince if he isn’t the Serpent Prince?”

  “He comes later. Are you always this impatient?” he asked sternly.

  She glanced up at him then as her lips slowly curved into a smile. Simon was struck dumb, all thought having fled from his mind. Her fine, jeweled eyes crinkled at the corners, and a single dimple appeared on the smooth surface of her left cheek. She positively glowed. Miss Craddock-Hayes really was an angel. Simon felt a strong, almost violent, urge to
thumb away that dimple. To lift her face and taste her smile.

  He closed his eyes. He didn’t want this.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard her say. “I won’t interrupt again.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’m afraid my head hurts. No doubt from having it bashed in the other day.” Simon stopped babbling as something occurred to him. “When, exactly, was I found?”

  “Two days ago.” She rose and gathered her book and pens. “I’ll leave you to rest. I can write the letter to your valet in the meantime and post it. Unless you would like to read it first?”

  “No, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Simon sank into the pillows, his ringless hand lax on the coverlet. He kept his voice casual. “Where are my clothes?”

  She paused, halfway out, and shot him an enigmatic look over her shoulder. “You didn’t have any when I found you.” She closed the door quietly.

  Simon blinked. Usually he didn’t lose his clothes until at least the second meeting with a lady.

  “THE VICAR’S HERE TO SEE YOU, MISS.” Mrs. Brodie poked her head into the sitting room the next morning.

  Lucy sat on the blue damask settee, darning one of Papa’s socks. She sighed and glanced at the ceiling, wondering if the viscount had heard her visitor below his window. She didn’t even know if he was awake yet; she hadn’t seen him this morning. Something about his amused gray eyes, so alert and alive, had flustered her yesterday. She was unaccustomed to being flustered, and the experience wasn’t pleasant. Hence her cowardly avoidance of the wounded man since leaving him to write his letter.She laid aside her mending now. “Thank you, Mrs. Brodie.”

  The housekeeper gave her a wink before hurrying back to the kitchen, and Lucy rose to greet Eustace. “Good morning.”

  Eustace Penweeble, the vicar of Maiden Hill’s little church, nodded his head at her as he had every Tuesday, barring holidays and bad weather, for the past three years. He smiled shyly, running his big, square hands around the brim of the tricorne he was holding. “It’s a beautiful day. Would you care to come with me as I make my rounds?”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Good. Good,” he replied.

  A lock of brown hair escaped from his queue and fell over his forehead, making him look like an immense little boy. He must have forgotten the powdered, bobbed wig of his station again. Just as well. Lucy privately thought he looked better without it. She smiled at him fondly, gathered her waiting wrap, and preceded Eustace out the door.

  The day was indeed beautiful. The sun was so bright it nearly blinded her as she stood on the granite front step. The ancient orange brick of Craddock-Hayes House looked mellow, the light reflecting off the mullioned windows in front. Old oak trees lined the gravel drive. They’d already lost their leaves, but their crooked branches made interesting shapes against the crisp, blue sky. Eustace’s trap waited near the door, Hedge at the horse’s head.

  “May I assist you in?” Eustace asked politely as if she might actually turn him down.

  Lucy placed her hand in his.

  Hedge rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Every blamed Tuesday. Why not a Thursday or Friday, for Jaysus’ sake?”

  Eustace frowned.

  “Thank you.” Lucy’s voice overrode the manservant’s, drawing Eustace’s eyes away from him. She made a production out of settling herself.

  The vicar got in next to her and took the reins. Hedge retreated to the house, shaking his head.

  “I thought we’d drive around to the church, if that meets with your approval.” Eustace chirruped to the horse. “The sexton has alerted me that there may be a leak in the roof over the vestry. You can give me your opinion.”

  Lucy just refrained from murmuring an automatic how delightful. She smiled instead. They bowled out of the Craddock-Hayes drive and into the lane where she’d found the viscount. The road looked innocent enough in the light of day, the empty trees no longer menacing. They topped a rise. Dry stone walls rolled over the chalk hills in the distance.

  Eustace cleared his throat. “You visited Mistress Hardy recently, I understand?”

  “Yes.” Lucy turned to him politely. “I brought her some calf’s foot jelly.”

  “And how did you find her? Has her ankle healed from the tumble she took?”

  “She still had it up, but she was feisty enough to complain that the jelly was not as tasty as hers.”

  “Ah, good. She must be getting better if she can complain.”

  “That’s what I thought myself.”

  Eustace smiled at her, coffee-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re a wonderful help to me, keeping track of the villagers.”

  Lucy nodded and tilted her face into the wind. Eustace frequently made similar comments. In the past they’d been comforting, if dull. Today, though, she found his complacency slightly irritating.

  But Eustace was still talking. “I wish some of the other ladies of the village would be so charitable.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  A wash of red stained his cheekbones. “Your friend Miss McCullough, for one. She spends most of her time gossiping, I think.”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Patricia does like a good gossip, but she’s really quite kind underneath.”

  He looked skeptical. “I will accept your word on the matter.”

  A herd of cows crowded the road, milling stupidly. Eustace slowed the trap and waited while the cowherd followed his charges off the thoroughfare and into a field.

  He shook the reins to start the horse again and waved to the man as they passed. “I’ve heard you had an adventure the other day.”

  Lucy was unsurprised. Probably the whole town had news of her find within minutes of Hedge summoning Doctor Fremont. “Indeed. We discovered the man right over there.” She pointed and felt a shudder run up her spine as she saw the spot where she’d found the viscount so close to death.

  Eustace dutifully looked at the ditch. “You should be more careful in the future. The fellow might’ve been up to no good.”

  “He was unconscious,” Lucy said mildly.

  “Still. It’s best not to wander about by yourself.” He smiled at her. “Wouldn’t do to lose you.”

  Did Eustace think her a complete wigeon? She tried not to let annoyance show. “I was with Mr. Hedge.”

  “Of course. Of course. But Hedge is a small man and getting on in years.”

  Lucy looked at him.

  “Right. Just to keep in mind for the future.” He cleared his throat again. “Do you have any idea who the fellow you found is?”

  “He woke yesterday,” Lucy said carefully. “He says his name is Simon Iddesleigh. He’s a viscount.”

  Eustace twitched the reins. The horse, an aging gray, shook its head. “A viscount? Really? I suppose he’s a gouty old boy.”

  She remembered the quick eyes and quicker tongue. And the expanse of bare chest she’d seen when the coverlet had slipped. The viscount’s skin had been smooth and taut, long muscles running underneath. The dark brown of his nipples had contrasted quite explicitly with the pale surrounding skin. Really, she shouldn’t have noticed such a thing.

  Lucy cleared her throat and turned her gaze to the road. “I don’t think he’s much over thirty.”

  She felt Eustace shoot a glance at her. “Thirty. Still. A viscount. A bit rich for Maiden Hill blood, don’t you think?”

  What a depressing thought! “Perhaps.”

  “I wonder what he was doing here anyway.”

  They had reached Maiden Hill proper now, and Lucy nodded to two elderly ladies haggling with the baker. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Both ladies smiled and waved at them. As they drove past, the gray heads bent together.

  “Hmm. Well, here we are.” Eustace pulled the trap alongside the little Norman church and jumped down. He crossed around and carefully helped her descend. “Now, then. The sexton said the leak was in the nave. . . .” He strode to the back of the church, commenting on its general shape
and the needed repairs.

  Lucy had heard all of this before. In the three years they’d been courting, Eustace had often brought her by the church, perhaps because that was where he felt most in command. She listened with half an ear and strolled behind him. She couldn’t imagine the sardonic viscount going on and on about a roof, especially a church roof. In fact, she winced to think what he would say about the matter—something sharp, no doubt. Not that the viscount’s probable reaction made church roofs unimportant. Someone had to look out for the details that kept life running, and in a small village, the matter of a church roof leaking was rather large.

  The viscount most likely spent his days—and nights—in the company of ladies like himself. Frivolous and witty, their only care the trimming on their gown and the style of their hair. Such people had very little use in her world. Still . . . the viscount’s banter was amusing. She’d suddenly felt more awake, more alive when he’d started bamming her, as if her mind had caught a spark and was lit.

  “Let’s go look inside. I want to make sure the leak hasn’t worsened the mold on the walls.” Eustace turned and entered the church, then popped his head back out. “That is, if you don’t mind?”

  “No, of course not,” Lucy said.

  Eustace grinned. “Good girl.” He disappeared back inside.

  Lucy followed slowly, trailing her hands over the weathered tombstones in the churchyard. The Maiden Hill church had stood here since shortly after the Conqueror had landed. Her ancestors hadn’t been here that long, but many Craddock-Hayes bones graced their small mausoleum in the corner of the cemetery. As a girl, she’d played here after church on Sundays. Her parents had met and married in Maiden Hill and spent their entire life here, or at least Mama had. Papa had been a sea captain and had sailed around the world, as he liked to tell anyone who would listen. David was a sailor as well. He was on the ocean at this very moment, perhaps nearing an exotic port of call. For a moment Lucy felt a stab of envy. How wonderful it would be to choose one’s own destiny, to decide to become a doctor or artist or sailor on the open seas. She had a fancy that she wouldn’t be half bad as a sailor. She’d stand on the poop deck, the wind in her hair, the sails creaking overhead, and—