The Serpent Prince (31 page)

A scrape came from the end of the aisle.
Please, God.
Footsteps, slow and steady, crunched on the broken glass. Were they coming to tell her?
No. Please, no.
She curled within herself, huddled on the ice, her hands still shielding her eyes, blocking out the dawning day, blocking out the end of her world.

“Lucy.” It was a whisper, so low she should not have been able to hear it.

But she did. She dropped her hands, raised her face, hoping, but not daring to believe. Not yet. He was bareheaded, ghastly white, his shirt covered in gore. Blood was crusted down the right side of his face from a cut on his brow, and he cradled one arm. But he was alive.

Alive.

“Simon.” She clumsily wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to get rid of the tears so she could see, but they kept coming. “Simon.”

He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before her.

“I’m sorry—” she started, and then realized she was speaking over his words. “What?”

“Stay.” He’d grasped her shoulders with both hands, squeezing as if he couldn’t believe her solid. “Stay with me. I love you. God, I love you, Lucy. I can’t—”

Her heart seemed to expand with his words. “I’m sorry. I—”

“I can’t live without you,” he was saying, his lips skimming her face. “I tried. There isn’t any light without you.”

“I won’t leave again.”

“I become a creature with a blackened soul—”

“I love you, Simon—”

“Without hope of redemption—”

“I love you.”

“You are my salvation.”

“I love you.”

He finally seemed to hear her through his own confession. He stopped still and stared at her. Then he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, his lips moving tenderly over hers, wanting, comforting. She tasted tears and blood and didn’t care. He was alive. Her sob was caught in his mouth as he opened it over hers. She sobbed again and ran her hands across the back of his head, feeling his short hair tickle her palms. She’d nearly lost him.

Lucy tried to pull back, remembering. “Your shoulder, your forehead—”

“It’s nothing,” he murmured over her lips. “Christian pricked me, that’s all. It’s already bandaged.”

“But—”

He suddenly lifted his head, his ice eyes staring into hers, melting. “I didn’t kill him, Lucy. We dueled, it’s true, but we stopped before anyone was killed. Fletcher and his family will go to America and never return to England.”

She stared at him. He hadn’t killed, after all. “Are there more duels?”

“No. It’s over.” He blinked and seemed to hear what he’d said. “It’s over.”

Lucy laid a hand on his cold, cold cheek. “Darling.”

“It’s over.” His voice broke. He bowed his head until his forehead rested on her shoulder. “It’s over and Ethan is dead. Oh, God, my brother is dead.”

“I know.” Gently she stroked his hair, feeling the sobs that he would not let her see shake his frame.

“He was such a pompous ass, and I loved him so much.”

“Of course you did. He was your brother.”

Simon choked on a laugh and raised his face from her shoulder. “My angel.” His gray eyes swam with tears.

Lucy shivered. “It’s cold here. Let’s go inside and get you into bed.”

“Such a practical woman.” He struggled to rise.

Lucy stood stiffly and put her arm about him to help him up. “And I insist on a physician this time. Even if I have to drag him away from his Christmas breakfast.”

“Christmas.” Simon stopped short, nearly knocking her down. “Is it Christmas?”

“Yes.” Lucy smiled up at him. He looked so confused. “Didn’t you know? It’s all right. I don’t expect a present.”

“But I have one for you, and one for Pocket as well,” Simon said. “A toy naval ship complete with sailors and officers and rows of little cannons. It’s really quite clever.”

“I’m sure it is. Pocket will adore it, and Rosalind will not approve, and I expect that’s your intention.” Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, Simon!”

He frowned. “What?”

“I invited Pocket and Rosalind to Christmas breakfast. I forgot.” Lucy stared up at him horrified. “What should we do?”

“We’ll inform Newton and Cook and leave it to them.” He kissed her forehead. “Rosalind is family, after all. She’ll understand.”

“Maybe so,” Lucy said. “But we can’t let them see you like this. We’ll at least have to get you cleaned.”

“I bow to your every wish, my angel. But humor me and open your present now, please.” He shut the conservatory door behind them and slowly made his way to the hall table where she’d earlier set the blue book. “Ah, it’s still here.” He turned with the battered rectangular package and held it out, looking suddenly uncertain.

Lucy’s brow wrinkled. “Shouldn’t you at least lie down?”

He offered the package mutely.

Her mouth curved in a smile that she could not suppress. Impossible to be stern with him while he stood in front of her like an earnest child. “What is it?” She took the package. It was rather heavy, so she laid it on the hall table again to unwrap it.

He shrugged. “Open it.”

She began working at the string.

“I should’ve given you a wedding present before now,” he said beside her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck.

Lucy’s mouth twitched. Where was her sophisticated London aristocrat now? Funny that Simon would be so nervous about giving her a Christmas present. She unwound the string.

“You’re a viscountess, now, for God’s sake,” Simon was muttering. “I should’ve bought you jewels. Emeralds or rubies. Sapphires. Definitely sapphires and maybe diamonds.”

The paper fell away. A flat, cherrywood box lay before her. She looked at him questioningly. He raised his brows back at her. She opened the box and froze. Inside were rows of pencils, plain and colored, as well as charcoal, pastels, a tiny ink bottle, and pens. A smaller box held watercolors, brushes, and a little bottle for water.

“If you don’t like it or if something is missing, I can have the art supplier make another,” Simon said very rapidly. “Maybe a bigger one. And I’ve ordered several bound sketchbooks to be made, but they aren’t ready yet. Of course, I’ll be giving you jewels as well. Lots of jewels. A treasure trove of jewels, but this is just something small—”

Lucy blinked back tears. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and hugged him close, glorying in the familiar smell of him.

She felt Simon’s arms lift to embrace her, but she remembered then. “I’ve got something for you as well.” She handed him the blue book.

He opened it to the title page and smiled widely. “The Serpent Prince. However did you finish it so fast?” He began leafing through the pages, studying her watercolor pictures. “I suppose I ought to give this to Pocket. It was for her that I commissioned it, after all, but—” He choked as he reached the last page.

Lucy glanced at it, admiring the handsome silver-haired prince she’d painted next to the pretty goat girl. It really was a fine piece of work, even if she did say so herself.

“You’ve changed the ending!” Simon sounded outraged.

Well, she didn’t care. “Yes, it’s much better now that Angelica marries the Serpent Prince instead. I never did like that Rutherford.”

“But, angel,” he protested. “She’d chopped off his head. I don’t see how he could recover from that.”

“Silly.” She pulled his face down to hers. “Don’t you know true love heals all?”

He paused just before their lips met, his eyes a silvery gray misted with tears. “It does, you know, your love for me.”

“
Our
love.”

“I feel whole when I’m with you. I didn’t think that was possible after Ethan and Christian and . . . everything. But you swept into my life and redeemed me, ransomed my very soul from the devil.”

“You’re being blasphemous again,” she whispered as she stood on tiptoe to reach his mouth.

“No, but really—”

“Hush. Kiss me.”

And he did.

Anyone familiar with my books knows I enjoy weaving Highland magic into my stories. Scotland is rich in myth, legend, and lore, and it can be difficult to decide on the ideal tradition to use. Sometimes the choice comes easy, the answer appearing out of nowhere, almost as if by magic.

It happened to me most recently in Scotland, during the writing of BRIDE FOR A KNIGHT (available now). This book’s hero, Jamie Macpherson, is a special character, larger-than-life, full of charm, and deserving more than his lot in life. I wanted to help him find happiness.

To do that, I needed something unique—a talisman—that would mean everything to Jamie. Something significant and life changing. But nothing felt right until I visited Crathes Castle and saw the Horn of Leys proudly displayed in the great hall. A medieval drinking horn of ivory and embedded with jewels, this treasure was presented to the Burnett family in 1323 by none other than Robert the Bruce.

When I saw the horn and learned its history, I knew Jamie would be well served if I included a
Horn of Days
in his story. As for serendipity, I hadn’t planned on visiting Crathes. I didn’t have a car that day and getting there meant walking six miles each way. So I walked. Something just compelled me to go there. I believe that something was Highland magic.

I hope you will enjoy watching Jamie discover the powerful magic of love and forgiveness. Readers wishing a peek at his world, might enjoy visiting my Web site at www.welfonder.com to see photos of Crathes Castle and even its famed Horn of Leys.

With all good wishes,

Whilst perusing my notes for THE SERPENT PRINCE (available now), I noticed this preliminary interview I made with the hero, Simon Iddesleigh, Viscount Iddesleigh. I present it here in the hope that it may amuse you.

Interview with the Rakehell

Lord Iddesleigh sits at his ease in my study. He wears a pristine white wig, a sapphire velvet coat, and yards of lace at wrist and throat. His right leg is flung over the arm of the chair in which he lounges, and his foot—shod in a large red-heeled shoe—swings idly. His ice-gray eyes are narrowed in faint amusement as he watches me arrange my notes.

Q:
My lord, you have been described as a rakehell without any redeeming qualities. How do you answer such an accusation?

Simon:
It’s always so hard to reply to compliments of this kind. One finds oneself stammering and overcome with pretty blushes.

Q:
You do not deny your rakehell tendencies?

Simon:
Deny? No, madam, rather I embrace them. The company of beautiful, yet wholly unchaste ladies, the exchange of fortunes at the gambling tables, the late night hours, and even later break-fasts. Tell me, what gentleman would not enjoy such a life?

Q:
And the rumors that you’ve killed two men in separate duels?

Simon:
(stops swinging his foot for a second, then continues, looking me frankly in the eye)
I would not put too much stock in rumors.

Q:
But—

Simon:
(admiring the lace at his wrist)
Is that all?

Q:
I did want to ask you about love.

Simon:
(sounding uncommonly bored)
Rakehells do not fall in love.

Q:
Never?

Simon:
Never.

Q:
But—

Simon:
(now sounding horribly kind)
Madam, I tell you there is no percentage in it. In order for a rakehell to be foolish enough as to fall in love, he’d have to find a woman so extraordinarily intelligent, witty, charming, and beautiful that he would for-sake all other women—and more importantly their favors—for her. What are the odds, I ask you?

Q:
But say a rakehell did fall in love—

Simon:
(heaving an exasperated sigh)
I have told you it is impossible. But if a rakehell did fall in love . . .

Q:
Yes?

Simon:
It would make a very interesting story.