The Serpent Prince

“Ahhh, God!” He jerked, his hips pumping mindlessly.



She’d moaned in pleasure.



Simon sighed and rolled his head against the wood. Once again he tried to catch his breath. Slowly, he drew out a handkerchief and wiped his hand, trying not to let self-loathing drown his soul. Then he walked to the tiny dresser and splashed water into the basin there. He doused his face and neck and hung his head, dripping, over the basin.



He was losing control.



A laugh burst from his lips, loud in the quiet room. He’d already lost control. God knew what he’d say to her on the morrow, his angel whom he’d ogled in her bath and whose privacy he’d stolen. Simon straightened painfully, dried his face, and lay down on the bed without bothering to undress.



It was past time to leave.



Chapter Six



Lucy pulled her gray woolen cloak more firmly about her shoulders. The wind was sharp this morning. It drove icy fingers under her skirt to wrap around her bones. Normally, she wouldn’t have ventured forth, especially on foot, but she needed time to think alone, and the house was full of men. True, there was only Papa, Hedge, and Simon, but she didn’t want to talk to two of them, and Hedge was irritating even in the best of circumstances. Hence a country ramble seemed in order.



Lucy kicked a pebble in the lane. How did one go about meeting a gentleman across the luncheon table when he’d last seen one nude and caressing one’s own breasts? If she wasn’t so embarrassed, she’d ask Patricia. Her friend would be sure to have some type of answer, even if it wasn’t the right one. And maybe Patricia would get her past this ghastly self-consciousness. It had been so horrible, last night when he’d seen her. Horrible, but also wonderful, in a secret, wicked way. She’d liked him looking at her. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she wished he’d stayed. Stayed and—



Footfalls, rapid and heavy, came from behind her.



Lucy suddenly realized she was alone in the road, no cottage in sight. Maiden Hill was usually a sleepy hamlet, but still . . . She whirled to confront whoever was about to overtake her.



It wasn’t a footpad.



No, much worse. It was Simon. She almost turned away again.



“Wait.” His voice was subdued. He opened his mouth again but shut it abruptly as if he didn’t know what else to say.



That unusual dumbness made her feel a little better. Could he possibly be as embarrassed as she? He’d stopped several paces away. He was bareheaded, without either a hat or a wig, and he stared at her mutely, his gray eyes yearning. Almost as if he needed something from her.



Tentatively, Lucy said, “I’m going for a walk over to the chalk downs. Would you like to accompany me?”



“Yes, please, most forgiving of angels.”



And suddenly it was all right. She set off once again, and he measured his stride to hers.



“In the spring, these woods are full of bluebells.” She gestured to the surrounding trees. “It’s really too bad you’ve come this time of year when everything is so bleak.”



“I shall try to be set upon in summer on the next occasion,” he murmured.



“Spring, actually.”



He glanced at her.



She smiled wryly. “That’s when the bluebells bloom.”



“Ah.”



“When I was young, Mama used to bring David and me here for picnics in the spring after we’d been cooped up inside all winter. Papa was away at sea most of the time, naturally. David and I would pick as many bluebells as our arms could hold and dump them into her lap.”



“She sounds a patient mother.”



“She was.”



“When did she die?” His words were soft, intimate.



Lucy remembered again that this man had seen her at her most vulnerable. She gazed straight ahead. “Eleven years ago now. I was thirteen.”



“A hard age to lose a parent.”



She looked at him. The only family he’d mentioned was his brother. He seemed more intent on finding out her meager history than revealing his own. “Is your mother alive?” Obviously, his father must already be dead for him to have inherited the title.



“No. She died a few years ago, before . . .” He stopped.



“Before?”



“Before Ethan, my brother, died. Thank God.” He tilted his head back and seemed to stare at the leafless branches overhead, although perhaps he looked at something entirely different. “Ethan was the shining apple of her eye. Her one greatest accomplishment, the person she loved most in the world. He knew how to charm—both the young and the old—and he could lead men. The local farmers came to him with their squabbles. He never met a soul who didn’t like him.”



Lucy watched him. His voice was expressionless as he described his brother, but his hands twisted slowly at his waist. She wondered if he was even aware of their movement. “You make him sound like a paragon.”



“He was. But he was also more. Much more. Ethan knew right from wrong without having to think about it, without any doubts. Very few people can do that.” He looked down and seemed to notice that he was pulling at his right index finger. He clasped his hands behind his back.



She must’ve made a sound.



Simon glanced at her. “My elder brother was the most moral person I’ve ever known.”



Lucy frowned, thinking about this perfect, dead brother. “Did he look like you?”



He seemed startled.



She raised her brows and waited.



“Actually, he did a little.” He half smiled. “Ethan was a bit shorter than I—no more than an inch or so—but he was broader and heavier.”



“What about his hair?” She looked at his nearly colorless locks. “Was he fair as well?”



“Mmm.” He ran his palm over his head. “But more a golden color with curls. He left it long and didn’t wear wigs or powder. I think he was a bit vain about it.” He smiled at her mischievously.



She smiled back. She liked him like this, teasing and carefree, and suddenly realized that despite Simon’s careless manner, he was very rarely at ease.



“His eyes were a clear blue,” he continued. “Mother used to say they were her favorite color.”



“I think I prefer gray.”



He bowed with a flourish. “My lady honors me.”



She curtsied in reply, but then sobered before asking, “How did Ethan die?”



He stopped, forcing her to a halt as well. She looked up into his face.



He seemed to be struggling; his brows were pulled together over those beautiful ice-gray eyes. “I—”



An insect buzzed past her head, followed by a loud shot. Simon grabbed her roughly and pushed her into the ditch. Lucy landed on her hip, pain and astonishment streaking through her, and then Simon landed on her, squashing her into the mud and dead leaves. Lucy turned her head, trying to draw a full breath. It felt like a horse was sitting on her back.



“Don’t move, goddamnit.” He placed his hand over her head and pushed it back down. “Somebody’s shooting at us.”



She spat out a leaf. “I know that.”



Oddly, he chuckled in her ear. “Wonderful angel.” His breath smelled of tea and mint.



Another shot. The leaves exploded a few feet from her shoulder.



He swore rather colorfully. “He’s reloading.”



“Can you tell where he is?” she whispered.



“Across the road somewhere. I can’t pinpoint the exact location. Hush.”



Lucy became aware that aside from the problem with breathing and the fact that she might die violently at any second, it was rather nice having Simon lying on her. He was wonderfully warm. And he smelled quite nice, not of tobacco like most men, but of some exotic scent. Maybe sandalwood? His arms, bracketing her body, felt comforting.



“Listen.” Simon placed his mouth next to her ear, his lips caressing her with each word. “At the next shot, we run. He has only the one rifle, and he has to reload. When he—”



A ball burrowed into the ground inches from her face.



“Now!”



Simon pulled her to her feet and ran before she had time to even register his command. Lucy panted to keep up, expecting any minute to feel the next shot between her shoulder blades. How long did it take to reload a gun? Only minutes, surely. Her breath rasped painfully in her chest.



Then Simon was shoving her ahead of him. “Go! Into the woods. Keep running!”



He wanted her to leave him? Dear God, he would die. “But—”



“He’s after me.” He glared fiercely into her eyes. “I cannot defend myself with you here. Go now!”



His last word coincided with the blast of yet another shot. Lucy turned and ran, not daring to look behind her, not daring to stop. She sobbed once and then the woods enveloped her in cool darkness. She ran as best she could, stumbling through the undergrowth, the branches catching on her cloak, tears of fear and anguish streaming down her face. Simon was back there, unarmed, confronting a man with a gun. Oh, God! She wanted to go back, but she couldn’t—with her out of the way, he at least had a chance against their attacker.



Footsteps sounded heavily behind her.



Lucy’s heart pounded right into her throat. She turned to face her attacker, her fists raised in puny defiance.



“Hush, it’s me.” Simon clasped her to his heaving chest, his breath panting across her face. “Shh, it’s all right. You are so brave, my lady.”



She laid her head against his chest and heard the pounding of his heart. She clutched the fabric of his coat with both hands. “You’re alive.”



“Yes, of course. I fear men like me never—”



He stopped because she couldn’t keep back a choked sob.



“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a more grave voice. He tilted her face away from his chest and wiped her tears with the palm of his hand. He looked concerned and weary and uncertain. “Don’t cry, sweeting. I’m not worth it, really I’m not.”



Lucy frowned and tried to blink away the tears that kept coming. “Why do you always say that?”



“Because it’s true.”



She shook her head. “You are very, very important to me, and I’ll cry for you if I want.”



The corner of his mouth curved up tenderly, but he didn’t mock her silly speech. “I am humbled by your tears.”



Lucy looked away; she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. “The shooter, is he . . . ?”



“He’s gone, I think,” Simon murmured. “A rather rickety farmer’s cart came along the road, drawn by a swaybacked gray. The cart was filled with laborers, and it must’ve scared the shooter off.”



Lucy puffed out a laugh. “The Jones boys. They’ve been useful for once in their lives.” Then a sudden thought struck and she leaned back to look at him. “Are you hurt?”



“No.” He smiled at her, but she could tell by his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. “We’d better get you home and then . . .”



She waited, but he’d trailed off again, thinking.



“Then what?” she prompted.



He turned his head so his lips brushed across her cheek, and she almost missed his words. “Then I need to leave this place. To protect you.”



“SHOT AT!” CAPTAIN CRADDOCK-HAYES roared an hour later.



All at once, Simon could see the iron hand that had commanded a ship and men for thirty years. He half expected the diamond segments in the windowpanes to rattle right out of their lead frames. They were in the formal sitting room of the Craddock-Hayes house. It was prettily decorated—puce-and-cream-striped curtains, similarly colored settees scattered here and there, and a rather nice china clock on the mantel—but he preferred Lucy’s little sitting room at the back of the house.



Not that he’d been given a choice.