The Serpent Prince (9 page)

The scent of roses and lavender drifted around her. She lifted a hand and watched the water drip from her fingertips. How strange this last week had been, since she had found Lord Iddesleigh. She’d spent more time in the previous days thinking about how she lived her life and what she would eventually do with it than she had in all her prior years. It had never occurred to her before that there might be more to her existence than keeping Papa’s house, doing charitable works here and there, and being courted by Eustace. Why had she not thought beyond being a vicar’s wife? She’d never even realized she yearned for more. It was almost like waking from a dream. Suddenly there was this flamboyant man, like none other she’d ever met. Almost effete, with his airs and pretty clothes, yet so very masculine in his movements and in the way he watched her.

He poked and prodded her. He demanded more than simple acquiescence. He wanted her reaction. He made her feel alive in a way that she’d never before thought possible. As if she’d merely sleepwalked through everything else in her life prior to his arrival. She woke in the morning wanting to talk to him, wanting to hear his deep voice spilling nonsense that made her smile or made her angry. She wanted to find out about him, what made his silver eyes so sad at times, what he hid behind his blather, how to make him laugh.

And there was more. She wanted his touch. At night in her narrow bed when she was in that state that is almost but not quite sleep, she would dream he touched her, that his long fingers traced her cheeks. That his wide mouth covered hers.

She inhaled a shuddering breath. She shouldn’t, she knew that, but she couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like if he was here now. Lord Iddesleigh.

Simon.

She drew her wet hands from the water, drops splashing softly into the tub, and trailed them across her collarbone, pretending her hands were his. She shivered. Goose bumps chased across her throat. Her nipples, rising just above the warm water, peaked. Her fingers skimmed lower, and she felt how soft her skin was, cool and damp from the water. She circled just the tips of her middle fingers underneath her breasts, which were full and heavy, then brought them up around to the small bumps of her areola.

She sighed and moved her legs restlessly. If Simon was watching her now, he would see her arousal, the damp prickles on her skin. He would see her nude breasts and erect nipples. The mere thought of being exposed to his eyes made her bite her lip. Slowly, she flicked her fingernails over her nipples, and the sensation made her clench her thighs. If he watched . . . She brought her thumbs and forefingers on either side of her nipples and pinched. Lucy moaned.

And suddenly she knew. She froze for an eternal second and then slowly opened her eyes.

He was in the doorway, his gaze locked with hers—hot, hungry, and very, very male. Then he let his eyes drop and deliberately perused her. From her flushed cheeks to her naked breasts, still encircled in her hands like an offering, down to what the water barely hid. She could almost feel his gaze on her naked skin. His nostrils flared and his cheekbones went ruddy. He looked up again and met her eyes, and she saw in his look both salvation and damnation. At that moment she didn’t care. She wanted him.

He turned and left the room.

He closed his eyes and remembered. He’d come back from sharing a nearly inedible dinner with Christian to find the house quiet. He’d presumed everyone was in bed. Not even Hedge had waited up to greet him; although, knowing Hedge, that hadn’t been a surprise. His foot had actually been on the first tread of the stairs when he’d hesitated. He didn’t know what had drawn him back to the little room. Maybe some male animal sense that knew what he would find there, what he would see. But all the same, he’d been dumbfounded. Turned like Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt.

Or in his case, a pillar of pure lust.

Lucy in her bath, the steam dewing her pale skin, curling the wisps of hair at her temples. Her head thrown back, her lips wet and parted . . .

Simon groaned and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches without opening his eyes.

Her neck had been arched, and he’d thought he could see the pulse beating at her throat, so white and soft. A drop of water lay pooled like a pearl in an oyster’s shell in the hollow between her collarbones.

He wrapped his hand around the hard meat between his legs and fisted up, the skin bunching before his fingers.

Her glorious, naked breasts, white and bell-shaped, and held,
held
in her small hands . . .

A faster downstroke, his hand wet with his leaking seed.

Her fingers encircling red, pointed nipples, as if she had been playing with them, arousing herself in her lonely bath.

He took his balls in his left hand and rolled them as he fisted rapidly with his right.

And as he had watched, she’d pinched her nipples between her fingers, squeezing and pulling those poor, sweet nubs until—

“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.

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.”