The Serpent Prince

Page 6

He paused to take a sip of water. She didn’t glance up. Her face looked so serene in the firelight, and even though her hand moved swiftly over the page, she seemed to have a stillness within her. Simon realized that he felt comfortable with this woman he hardly knew at all.
He blinked and began his story again. “There seemed to be a flickering light coming from the crack. The space was narrow, but Angelica found that if she turned sideways, she could just slip in, and when she did, she saw an astonishing thing. A very strange man—or at least he seemed to be a man. He was tall and lean and had long silver hair, and he was quite, quite nude. He stood in the light of a small, blue-flamed fire that was burning in a brazier.”
Her brows arched.
“But what was strangest of all, was that as Angelica watched, he seemed to vanish. When she went to look where he had stood, there lay a giant silver snake, coiled around the base of the brazier.” He absently rubbed his index finger, running his thumb against the place his ring should be. Suddenly he was very tired.
“Ah, at last we come to the infamous Serpent Prince.” She looked up and must have caught the weariness in his expression. Her own face sobered. “How does your back feel?”
Like hell. “Plucky, just plucky. I think the knife wound may’ve actually improved it.”
She watched him for a moment. And for the life of him, even with all his years of studying women, he’d not a clue as to what she thought.
“Are you ever serious?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Not ever.”
“I thought not.” Her eyes were intent on him. “Why?”
He looked away. He could not sustain that intense, too-perceptive regard. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I think you do know,” she said softly. “As to whether or not it matters . . . Well, that isn’t for me to say.”
“Isn’t it?” It was his turn to stare at her, pressuring her to admit . . . what? He wasn’t sure.
“No,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth to argue further, but some belated sense of self-preservation stopped him.
She inhaled. “You should rest, and I’ve been keeping you up.” His angel shut her book and rose. “I sent the letter to your valet yesterday. He should receive it soon.”
He let his head fall back against the pillows and watched her as she gathered the empty dishes. “Thank you, beautiful lady.”
She paused by the door and looked back at him. The candlelight flickered over her face, turning it into a Renaissance painting, most fitting for an angel. “Are you safe here?”
Her voice was soft, and he had begun to drift into dreams, so he wasn’t sure of the words—hers or his.
“I don’t know.”
Chapter Three
“Iddesleigh. Iddesleigh.” Papa frowned as he chewed his gammon steak, his chin jerking up and down. “Knew an Iddesleigh in the navy when I sailed The Islander five and twenty years ago. Midshipman. Used to get terribly seasick right out of port. Always hanging over the middeck rail looking green and heaving up his accounts. Any relation?”
Lucy suppressed a sigh. Papa had been twitting the viscount all through supper. Normally, her father enjoyed entertaining new guests. They were a fresh audience for his hoary sea stories, retold countless times to his children, neighbors, servants, and anyone else who would hold still long enough to listen. But something about Lord Iddesleigh had gotten her father’s back up. This was the first meal the poor man had been able to come down for after spending the last four days bedridden. The viscount sat at the table appearing urbane and at ease. One had to look closely to notice he still favored his right arm.
She wouldn’t blame him if he hid in his room after tonight. And that would disappoint her terribly. Even though she knew, deep in her soul, that she should stay away from the viscount, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about him. All the time. It was really rather irritating. Perhaps it was merely the novelty of a new person in her narrow circle of acquaintances. After all, she’d known the people she saw every day since infancy. On the other hand, maybe it was the man himself, and wasn’t that an uncomfortable thought?
“No, I don’t believe so.” Lord Iddesleigh answered her father’s question as he helped himself to more boiled potatoes. “As a rule, the members of my family avoid anything resembling work. Much too taxing, and it has an unfortunate tendency to lead to sweat. We much prefer to idle our days away eating cream cakes and discussing the latest gossip.”
Then again, Lucy reflected, the younger man did seem to be holding his own with her father. Papa’s eyes narrowed ominously.
She picked up a basket and waved it under her parent’s nose. “More bread? Mrs. Brodie baked it fresh this morning.”
He ignored her ploy. “Old landed gentry, are they?” Papa sawed vigorously at his meat while he spoke. “Let others toil on their land, eh? Spend all their time in the sinful fleshpots of London instead?”
Oh, for goodness’ sake! Lucy gave up and set the bread basket down. She would enjoy the meal even if no one else did. Their dining room was hopelessly out of date, but it was cozy for all that. She tried to focus on her surroundings rather than on the distressing conversation. She turned to her left, noting in approval the cheerfully burning fire.
“Why, yes, I quite like a fleshpot now and then,” Lord Iddesleigh said, smiling benignly. “That is, when I can find the energy to get myself out of bed. Have since I was but a tiny lad in leading strings accompanied by my nurse.”
“Really—” she began, only to be cut off as Papa snorted. She sighed and looked to the other end of the room where a single door led into the hall and then the kitchen. It was so nice that the room wasn’t cursed by a draft.
“Although,” the viscount continued, “I must confess I’m a bit hazy on what exactly constitutes a fleshpot.”
Lucy’s gaze dropped to the table—the only safe thing to look at in the room at the moment. The old walnut dining table wasn’t long, but that made meals all the more intimate. Mama had chosen the striped burgundy and cream wallpaper before Lucy’d been born, and Papa’s collection of sailing ship prints graced the walls—
“I mean, flesh and pot, how did the two come together?” Lord Iddesleigh mused. “I trust we are not discussing chamber pots—”
Dangerous territory! Lucy smiled determinedly and interrupted the awful man. “Mrs. Hardy told me the other day that someone let Farmer Hope’s pigs out. They scattered for half a mile, and it took Farmer Hope and his boys a whole day to get them back.”
No one paid attention.
“Ha. From the Bible, fleshpot is.” Papa leaned forward, apparently having scored a point. “Exodus. Have read the Bible, haven’t you?”
Oh, dear. “Everyone thought it might be the Jones boys that let them out,” Lucy said loudly. “The pigs, I mean. You know how the Joneses are always up to mischief. But when Farmer Hope went round to the Jones place, what do you think? Both boys were in bed with fever.”
The men never took their gaze from each other.
“Not recently, I confess.” The viscount’s icy silver eyes sparkled innocently. “Too busy idling my life away, don’t you know. And fleshpot means . . . ?”
“Harrumph. Fleshpot.” Papa waved his fork, nearly spearing Mrs. Brodie as she brought in more potatoes. “Everyone knows what fleshpot means. Means fleshpot.”
Mrs. Brodie rolled her eyes and set the potatoes down hard at Papa’s elbow. Lord Iddesleigh’s lips twitched. He raised his glass to his mouth and watched Lucy over the rim as he drank.
She could feel her face warm. Must he look at her like that? It made her uncomfortable, and she was sure it couldn’t be polite. She grew even more warm when he set the glass down and licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Wretch!
Lucy looked away determinedly. “Papa, didn’t you once tell us an amusing story about a pig on your ship? How it got out and ran around the deck and none of the men could catch it?”
Her father was staring grimly at the viscount. “Aye, I’ve got a story to tell. Might be educational for some. About a frog and a snake.”
“But—”
“How interesting,” Lord Iddesleigh drawled. “Do tell us.” He leaned back in his chair, his hand still fiddling with the glass stem.
He wore David’s old clothes, none of which fit him, her brother being shorter and broader in the torso. The scarlet coat’s sleeves let his bony wrists stick out and at the same time the coat hung about his neck. He had gained some color in his face in the last days to replace the awful dead white he’d sported when she’d first found him, although his face seemed to be naturally pale. He should have looked ridiculous, yet he did not.
“Once there was a little frog and a great big snake,” Papa began. “The snake wanted to cross a stream. But snakes can’t swim.”
“Are you sure?” the viscount murmured. “Don’t some types of vipers take to the water to catch their prey?”
“This snake couldn’t swim,” Papa amended. “So he asked the frog, ‘Can you take me across?’”
Lucy had stopped even pretending to eat. She switched her gaze back and forth between the men. They were engaged in a conflict with multiple layers that she was powerless to influence. Her father leaned forward, red-faced under his white wig, obviously intent. The viscount was bare-headed, pale hair glinting in the candlelight. On the surface he was relaxed and at ease, maybe even a little bored, but below that surface she knew he was just as focused as the older man.
“And the frog says, ‘I’m not a fool. Snakes eat frogs. You’ll gobble me down, sure as I’m sitting here.’” Papa paused to take a drink.
The room was silent, save for the snap of the fire.
He set down his glass. “But that snake, he was a sly one, he was. He said to the little frog, ‘Never fear, I’d drown if I ate you crossing that big stream.’ So the frog thinks things over and decides the snake is right; he’s safe while he’s in the water.”
Lord Iddesleigh sipped his wine, his eyes watchful and amused. Betsy began clearing the dishes, her fat, red hands quick and light.
“The snake creeps on the little frog’s back, and they start into the stream, and halfway across, do you know what happens?” Papa glared at their guest.
The viscount slowly shook his head.
“That snake sinks his fangs into the frog.” Papa slapped the table to emphasize his point. “And the frog, with his last breath, calls, ‘Why did you do that? We’ll both die now.’ And the snake says—”
“Because it’s the nature of snakes to eat frogs.” Lord Iddesleigh’s voice mingled with her father’s.
Both men stared at each other for a moment. Every muscle in Lucy’s body tightened.
The viscount broke the tension. “Sorry. That story made the rounds several years ago. I just couldn’t resist.” He drained his glass and set it carefully by his plate. “Perhaps it’s in my nature to spoil another man’s tale.”
Lucy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Well. I know Mrs. Brodie has made apple tart for dessert, and she has a lovely cheddar cheese to go with it. Would you care for some, Lord Iddesleigh?”
He looked at her and smiled, his wide mouth curving sensuously. “You tempt me, Miss Craddock-Hayes.”
Papa slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes.
Lucy jumped.
“But as a lad, I was warned many times against temptation,” the viscount said. “And although, sadly, I’ve spent a lifetime disregarding the warnings, tonight I think I shall be prudent. If you will excuse me, Miss Craddock-Hayes. Captain Craddock-Hayes.” He bowed and left the room before Lucy could speak.