The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(4)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Lucy didn’t point out that riffraff could be found even in Maiden Hill. “Doctor Fremont said he’d be around again in the morning to check his bandages.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Brodie looked doubtfully at the patient, as if assessing his odds of living to the next day.

Lucy took a deep breath. “Until then, I suppose we can only make him comfortable. We’ll leave the door ajar in case he wakes.”

“I’d best be seeing to the captain’s supper. You know how he gets if it’s late. As soon as it’s on the table, I’ll send Betsy up to watch him.”

Lucy nodded. They only had the one maid, Betsy, but between the three women, they should be able to nurse the stranger. “You go. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Very well, miss.” Mrs. Brodie gave her an old-fashioned look. “But don’t be too long. Your father will be wanting to talk to you.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose and nodded. Mrs. Brodie smiled in sympathy and left.

Lucy looked down at the stranger in her brother, David’s, bed and wondered again, who was he? He was so motionless that she had to concentrate to see the slight rise and fall of his chest. The bandages about his head only emphasized his infirmity and highlighted the bruising on his brow. He looked so terribly alone. Was anyone worried about him, perhaps anxiously awaiting his return?

One of his arms lay outside the covers. She touched it.

His hand flashed up and struck at her wrist, capturing and holding it. Lucy was so startled she only had time for a frightened squeak. Then she was staring into the palest eyes she’d ever seen. They were the color of ice.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said distinctly.

For a moment, she thought the grim words were for her, and her heart seemed to stop in her breast.

His gaze shifted past her. “Ethan?” The man frowned as if puzzled, and then he shut his weird eyes. Within a minute, the grip on her wrist grew slack and his arm fell back to the bed.

Lucy drew a breath. Judging from the ache in her chest, it was the first breath she’d taken since the man had seized her. She stepped back from the bed and rubbed her tender wrist. The man’s hand had been brutal; she’d have bruises in the morning.

Whom had he spoken to?

Lucy shuddered. Whoever it was, she did not envy him. The man’s voice held not a trace of indecision. In his own mind, there was no doubt that he would kill his enemy. She glanced again at the bed. The stranger was breathing slowly and deeply now. He looked like he was slumbering peacefully. If not for the pain in her wrist, she might have thought the whole incident a dream.

“Lucy!” The bellow from below could only be her father.

Gathering her skirts, she left the room and ran down the stairs.

Papa was already seated at the head of the dinner table, a cloth tucked in at his neck. “Don’t like a late supper. Puts my digestion off. Can’t sleep half the night because of the gurgling. Is it too much to ask for dinner to be on time in my own home? Is it? Eh?”

“No, of course not.” Lucy sat in her chair at the right of her father. “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Brodie brought in a steaming roast beef crowded with potatoes, leeks, and turnips.

“Ha. That’s what a man likes to see on his dinner table.” Papa positively beamed as he picked up his knife and fork in preparation for carving. “A good English beef. Smells most delicious.”

“Thank you, sir.” The housekeeper winked at Lucy as she turned back to the kitchen.

Lucy smiled back. Thank goodness for Mrs. Brodie.

“Now, then, have a bite of that.” Papa handed her a plate heaped with food. “Mrs. Brodie knows how to make a fine roast beef.”

“Thank you.”

“Tastiest in the county. Need a bit of sustenance after gallivantin’ all over the place this afternoon. Eh?”

“How have your memoirs gone today?” Lucy sipped her wine, trying not to think of the man lying upstairs.

“Excellent. Excellent.” Papa sawed enthusiastically at the roast beef. “Put down a scandalous tale from thirty years ago. About Captain Feather—he’s an admiral now, damn him—and three native island women. D’you know these native gels don’t wear any—Ahurmph!” He suddenly coughed and looked at her in what seemed like embarrassment.

“Yes?” Lucy popped a forkful of potato into her mouth.

“Never mind. Never mind.” Papa finished filling his plate and pulled it to where his belly met the table. “Let’s just say it’ll light a fire under the old boy after all this time. Ha!”

“How delightful.” Lucy smiled. If Papa ever did finish his memoirs and publish them, there would be a score of apoplectic fits in His Majesty’s navy.

“Quite. Quite.” Papa swallowed and took a sip of wine. “Now, then. I don’t want you worrying over this scoundrel you’ve brought home.”

Lucy’s gaze dropped to the fork she held. It trembled slightly, and she hoped her father wouldn’t notice the movement. “No, Papa.”

“You’ve done a good deed, Samaritan and all that. Just as your mother used to teach you from the Bible. She’d approve. But remember”—he forked up a turnip—“I’ve seen head wounds before. Some live. Some don’t. And there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it either way.”

She felt her heart sink in her chest. “You don’t think he’ll live?”

“Don’t know,” Papa barked impatiently. “That’s what I’m saying. He might. He might not.”

“I see.” Lucy poked at a turnip and tried not to let the tears start.

Her father slammed the flat of his hand down on the table. “This is just what I’m warning you about. Don’t get attached to the tramp.”

A corner of Lucy’s mouth twitched up. “But you can’t keep me from feeling,” she said gently. “I’ll do it no matter if I want to or not.”

Papa frowned ferociously. “Don’t want you to be sad if he pops off in the night.”

“I’ll do my very best not to be sad, Papa,” Lucy promised. But she knew it was too late for that. If the man died tonight, she would weep on the morrow, promises or no.

“Humph.” Her father returned to his plate. “Good enough for now. If he survives, though, mark my words.” He looked up and pinned her with his azure eyes. “He even thinks about hurting one hair on your head, and out he goes on his arse.”