The Serpent Prince (18 page)

She froze.

“I’m sorry.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. At the same time, she was oddly touched by his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Something tore quite explicitly, and she inhaled but didn’t make a sound.

He opened his eyes, looking stricken and hot and savage. “Oh, God, sweetheart. I promise it will be better next time.” He kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “I promise.”

She concentrated on steadying her breath and hoped he would finish very soon. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but this was no longer pleasant for her.

He parted his mouth over hers and licked her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

His hand moved between them and caressed her lightly where they were joined. She tensed, unconsciously expecting pain, but instead it was pleasant. And then it was more. Heat began to flow from her center. Slowly her thighs relaxed from the rigid arch they’d assumed when he’d entered her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice deep and lazy.

His thumb brushed against her nubbin of flesh. She closed her eyes and sighed.

He circled. “Sorry.”

He moved very slowly within her, sliding. It was almost . . . good.

“Sorry.” He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she sucked it.

She let her legs drop open to give him better access. He groaned into her mouth, incoherent, and suddenly it was beautiful again. She arched her hips to meet that thumb, to demand more pressure and dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He moved faster in reply. He broke their kiss, and she could see his silver eyes, pleading and taking at the same time. She smiled and wrapped her legs about his hips. His eyes widened at her movement and he groaned. His eyelids fluttered closed. Then he was arcing back, the tendons in his arms and neck straining to meet an invisible goal. He shouted and heaved against her. And she watched him, this powerful, articulate man driven to helpless, wordless pleasure by her body. By her.

He fell to her side, his chest still heaving, his eyes closed, and lay there until his breathing calmed. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but he reached out and gathered her to him.

“Sorry.” The word was so garbled, she wouldn’t have known what he’d said if he hadn’t been repeating it all along.

“Shh.” She stroked his damp side and smiled secretly. “Go to sleep, my love.”

He sat his mount like a man who’d been bred to the saddle, as indeed he had. Six generations of Walkers had led the hunt in his home county. The Walker stable was renowned for the hunters that came out of it. He’d probably sat a horse before he could toddle on leading-strings.

Sir Rupert shifted on his gelding. He hadn’t learned to ride until he was a young man and it showed. Add to that his crippled leg and he was damned uncomfortable. “What do you propose?”

“Kill him before he kills us.”

Sir Rupert winced and looked around again.
Fool.
Anyone listening would have blackmail material at the very least. On the other hand, if Walker could solve this problem for him . . . “We’ve tried that twice and failed.”

“So we try it again. Third time’s the charm.” Walker blinked at him with bovine eyes. “I’m not waiting like a cockerel to have its neck wrung for the supper pot.”

Sir Rupert sighed. It was a delicate balance. As far as he knew, Simon Iddesleigh still wasn’t aware of his part in the conspiracy. Iddesleigh most likely thought Walker was the last man involved. And if Iddesleigh could be kept from finding out, if he could bring his revenge to its inevitable bloody conclusion with Walker, well, all and good. Walker wasn’t such a very important piece of Sir Rupert’s life, after all. He certainly wouldn’t be missed. And with Walker gone, there would be no one else alive to connect him to the conspiracy that had led to Ethan Iddesleigh’s death. It was a seductive thought. He’d be able to rest, and God knew he was ready for it.

But if Walker talked before Iddesleigh got to him—or, worse,
when
Iddesleigh found him—all would be lost. Because, of course, Iddesleigh was really after Sir Rupert, even if he didn’t know it. Hence, Sir Rupert’s indulgence of Walker’s melodrama and this meeting in the park at dawn. The other man must think they were together in this.

His hand drifted toward his waistcoat pocket where the Iddesleigh signet ring still lay. He should’ve gotten rid of it by now. He had in fact nearly thrown it into the Thames on two occasions. But each time something stopped him. It was illogical, but he fancied that the ring gave him power over Iddesleigh.

“He married yesterday.”

“What?” Sir Rupert focused on the conversation.

“Simon Iddesleigh,” Walker said patiently, as if he weren’t the slow one. “Married some chit from the country. No money, no name. Maybe the man is insane.”

“I think not. Iddesleigh is many things, but insane is not one of them.” He squashed an urge to massage his thigh.

“So you say.” Walker shrugged and took out his snuffbox. “Any case, she might do.”

Sir Rupert stared bemusedly as the other man inhaled a pinch of snuff and sneezed violently.

Walker flapped his handkerchief and then blew loudly. “To kill.” He sniffed and wiped his nose before pocketing the handkerchief.

“Are you mad?” He nearly laughed in the other’s face. “Remember, it was the death of his brother that set Simon Iddesleigh off in the first place. Killing his new wife isn’t likely to stop him, now, is it?”

“Yes, but if we threaten her, tell him if he doesn’t cease, we’ll kill her.” Walker shrugged again. “I think he’ll stop. Worth a try at any rate.”

“Really.” Sir Rupert felt his lip curl. “I think it would be like lighting a powder keg. He’ll find you even faster.”

“But not you, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

Lord Walker flicked a speck of snuff from the lace at his wrist. “Not you. Made sure to stay out of this, haven’t you, Fletcher?”

“My anonymity has served our case well.” Sir Rupert met the younger man’s gaze steadily.

“Has it?” Walker’s heavy-lidded eyes stared back.

Sir Rupert had always found Walker’s eyes stupidly beastlike, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was so easy to discount the intelligence of a big, slow-moving animal. Sweat chilled on his back.

Walker’s gaze dropped. “That’s what I plan to do at any rate—and I expect you to back me, should I need it.”

“Naturally,” Sir Rupert said evenly. “We’re partners.”

“Good.” Walker grinned, ruddy cheeks bunching. “Have the bastard over a barrel in no time. Must go now. Left a little dove all cozy in her nest. Wouldn’t want her to fly before I got back.” He winked lewdly and nudged his horse into a trot.

Sir Rupert watched the mist swallow the other man before turning his own gelding toward home and his family. His leg was giving him the very hell, and he’d pay for this ride by having to put it up for the rest of the day. Walker or Iddesleigh. It didn’t much matter at this point.

As long as one of them died.

Lucy sighed and opened her eyes.

The sun was peeking through a crack in the curtains. Was it as late as that? Hard on the heels of that thought was another. Had Simon locked the door? In town, Lucy had become accustomed to a maid drawing the curtains in the morning and stirring the fire. Would the servants have expected Simon to return to his own room last night? She turned her head to frown at the door.

“Shh.” Simon squeezed her breast in reprimand at her movement. “Sleep,” he mumbled, and his breathing evened out again.

Lucy watched him. Fair stubble glinted on his jaw, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his short hair was smashed to one side. He looked so handsome, she nearly caught her breath. She tilted her head until she could see his hand wrapped around her breast. The nipple poked through between his first and second fingers.

Her face heated. “Simon.”

“Shh.”

“Simon.”

“Back . . . sleep.” He brushed a kiss against her bare shoulder without opening his eyes.

She firmed her mouth. This was a serious matter. “Is the door locked?”

“Umm.”

“Simon, is the door locked?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

Lucy squinted at him. He’d started to snore again.

“I don’t believe you.” She moved to slide from the bed.

Simon twisted and suddenly he was lying on her. He opened his eyes finally. “I should have expected this when I married a country miss.” His voice was gravelly with sleep.

“What?” Lucy blinked up at him. She felt very naked beneath him. His organ pressed into the softness of her lower belly.

“Early hours.” He frowned sternly and shifted so his weight was off her chest. Which only made his hips bear down harder.

Lucy tried to ignore the male anatomy impressing itself onto her stomach. It wasn’t easy. “But the maid—”

“Any maid who comes through that door before we quit this room, I’ll let go without reference.”

“You said it was locked.” She tried to frown but was afraid her lips may have curved in the wrong direction. She should’ve been mortified.

“Did I?” He traced her nipple. “Same thing. No one will interrupt us.”

“I don’t think—”

He covered her mouth with his, and Lucy forgot her thought. His lips were warm and gentle in contrast to his bristles scraping her chin. Somehow the two different touches were erotic.

“So how will you entertain your new bridegroom,” he murmured in her ear, “now that you’ve woken me, hmm?” He pressed his hips into hers.

Lucy shifted restlessly, then stilled with a gasp—a small one, but he heard it nevertheless.

“I’m sorry.” Simon leaped off her. “You must think me a ravenous beast. Does it hurt terribly? Perhaps I should have a maid sent up to tend you. Or—”

Lucy pressed her hand to his lips. She’d never get a word in otherwise. “Shh. I’m all right.”

“But surely your—”

“Really.” Lucy closed her eyes and contemplated pulling the coverlet over her head. Did all married men speak so frankly to their wives? “I’m just a little sore is all.”

He looked at her helplessly.

“It was quite nice.” She cleared her throat. How to get him back to her? “When you were lying next to me.”

“Come here, then.”

She inched closer, but when she would have faced him, he gently turned her so that her back was to his chest.

“Put your head here.” He stretched out his arm to make a pillow for her.

She was even warmer than before, cradled and held all around by his body in a comfortable, safe embrace. He brought his legs up behind hers and groaned softly. His erection was against the small of her back, insistent and hot.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“No.” He chuckled rustily. “But I’ll survive.”

“Simon—”

He clasped her breast. “I know I hurt you last night.” His thumb flicked her nipple. “But it won’t be like that again.”

“It’s all right—”

“I want to show you.”

Lucy tensed. What, exactly, did showing her entail?

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered in her ear. “It’ll feel nice. Relax. Let me show you heaven; you’re an angel, after all.” His hand smoothed down her torso, tickling across her belly, and reached the hair below.

“Simon, I don’t think—”

“Shh.” He walked his fingers through her maiden hair. She trembled and didn’t know where to look. Thank goodness he wasn’t facing her. Finally, she closed her eyes.

“Open for me, sweetheart,” he rumbled in her ear. “You’re so soft here. I want to pet you.”

Surely he wouldn’t . . .

He wedged his knee between her thighs, parting them. His hand traced the flanges of her sex. She caught her breath, waiting.

“I’d kiss you here.” He stroked up. “Lick and tongue you, memorize your spice, but I think it’s too soon for that.”

Her brain froze as she tried to imagine. Her hips shied.

“Shh. Be still. It won’t hurt. In fact”—he reached the top of her cleft-—“I’ll make you feel very, very good.” He circled that bit of flesh there. “Look at me.”

She couldn’t. She shouldn’t even be allowing him to do this. Surely this wasn’t what was normally done between man and wife.

“Angel, look at me,” he crooned. “I want to see your beautiful eyes.”

Reluctantly she turned her head. Raised her eyelids. He stared at her, silver eyes glittering as he pressed with a finger. Her lips parted.

“God,” he groaned. Then he was kissing her, his tongue stroking over hers as his fingers slid more rapidly. She wanted to move her hips, to beg that finger. Instead she arched back, rubbing against him. He mumbled something and bit her bottom lip. She felt her wetness now, seeping, making his fingers slippery.

He pushed his penis hard against her bottom.

She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t think. She shouldn’t let this happen. Not in front of him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and relentlessly circled her below. He was a silver-eyed sorcerer who held her enthralled. She was losing control. She sucked on the thickness of his tongue and suddenly it happened. She arched and felt pleasure shake her. He moved more slowly then, raised his head to watch her, but she no longer cared. Warmth was diffusing through her, spreading from the center of her body. It did indeed feel good.

“Simon.”

“Angel?”

“Thank you.” Her tongue felt thick, as if she were drugged, and her words were a mumble. She closed her eyes and drifted for a bit, but then she thought of something. He was still hard against her back. She wiggled her bottom, and he sucked in a breath. Did it hurt him?

Well, of course it must. “Can I . . . ?” She felt her face heat. How to phrase the question? “Can I . . . help you?”

“It’s fine. Go to sleep.” But his voice was tight, and his male organ was almost burning a hole in her back. Surely that wasn’t good for his health.

She turned until she could see his face. She knew her own was flushed with shyness. “I’m your wife. I’d like to help you.”

A tinge of red chased across his cheekbones. Funny, he wasn’t so sophisticated when it came to his own needs.

The sight strengthened her resolve. “Please.”

He looked into her eyes, seemed to search them, and sighed. “I’m going to burn in hell for this.”

She arched her eyebrows and touched him gently on the shoulder.

His hand caught hers, and for a moment she thought he would push her away, but he guided her palm under the covers and drew it close to his body. Suddenly she held him. Her eyes widened. He was thicker than she’d imagined. There was no give to his flesh, and strangely his skin was soft. And hot. She wanted very much to look at him but wasn’t sure he could take that right now. Instead, very gently, she squeezed.

“Ah, God.” His eyelids drooped and there was a dazed look on his face.

It made her feel powerful. “What should I do?”

“Here.” His fingers delved into her feminine parts and she jumped. Then he was smearing her moisture over himself. “Just . . .” He wrapped his hand over hers and together they slid up the length of him. And back down again.

And again. This was absolutely fascinating. “May I?”

“Uh. Yes.” He blinked and released her hand.

She smiled, secretly pleased that he’d been reduced to monosyllables. She kept up the pace that he’d showed her and watched his dear face. He closed his eyes. A line had burrowed itself between his eyebrows. His upper lip was curled back from his teeth, and his face shone with sweat. Watching him, she felt warmth returning to her sex. But more than that, there was a feeling of control and, underneath, the realization of intimacy that he was letting her do this. That he’d made himself vulnerable to her.

“Faster,” he grunted.

She complied, her fingers slipping over his length, gripping his skin, hot and slick beneath her palm. His hips rose to meet her hand now.

“Ahh!” Suddenly his eyes opened, and she saw his irises had darkened to a steel gray. He looked grim and driven and almost as if he were in pain. Then he sneered and his big body began jerking. Cream spurted into her palm. He convulsed again, his teeth gritted, his eyes still staring into hers. She held his gaze, pressing her thighs together.

He slumped back into the bed as if terribly weakened, but she knew already from just last night that this was usual. Lucy withdrew her hand from underneath the covers. On it was a whitish substance. She examined it curiously, spreading her fingers. Simon’s seed.

He sighed beside her. “Oh, God. That was unbelievably crass of me.”

“No, it wasn’t.” She bent to kiss the corner of his mouth. “If you can do it to me, surely, then, I can do it to you.”

“Wise, my wife.” He turned his head to take control of the kiss, his mouth hard and possessive. “I am the luckiest of men.”

Moving more slowly than usual, he grasped her wrist and wiped her palm with a corner of the bedding. Then he turned her so her back was once again to his chest.

“Now”—he yawned—“now we sleep.”

He wrapped his arms around her and Lucy did just that.