The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(8)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“He woke yesterday,” Lucy said carefully. “He says his name is Simon Iddesleigh. He’s a viscount.”

Eustace twitched the reins. The horse, an aging gray, shook its head. “A viscount? Really? I suppose he’s a gouty old boy.”

She remembered the quick eyes and quicker tongue. And the expanse of bare chest she’d seen when the coverlet had slipped. The viscount’s skin had been smooth and taut, long muscles running underneath. The dark brown of his nipples had contrasted quite explicitly with the pale surrounding skin. Really, she shouldn’t have noticed such a thing.

Lucy cleared her throat and turned her gaze to the road. “I don’t think he’s much over thirty.”

She felt Eustace shoot a glance at her. “Thirty. Still. A viscount. A bit rich for Maiden Hill blood, don’t you think?”

What a depressing thought! “Perhaps.”

“I wonder what he was doing here anyway.”

They had reached Maiden Hill proper now, and Lucy nodded to two elderly ladies haggling with the baker. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

Both ladies smiled and waved at them. As they drove past, the gray heads bent together.

“Hmm. Well, here we are.” Eustace pulled the trap alongside the little Norman church and jumped down. He crossed around and carefully helped her descend. “Now, then. The sexton said the leak was in the nave. . . .” He strode to the back of the church, commenting on its general shape and the needed repairs.

Lucy had heard all of this before. In the three years they’d been courting, Eustace had often brought her by the church, perhaps because that was where he felt most in command. She listened with half an ear and strolled behind him. She couldn’t imagine the sardonic viscount going on and on about a roof, especially a church roof. In fact, she winced to think what he would say about the matter—something sharp, no doubt. Not that the viscount’s probable reaction made church roofs unimportant. Someone had to look out for the details that kept life running, and in a small village, the matter of a church roof leaking was rather large.

The viscount most likely spent his days—and nights—in the company of ladies like himself. Frivolous and witty, their only care the trimming on their gown and the style of their hair. Such people had very little use in her world. Still . . . the viscount’s banter was amusing. She’d suddenly felt more awake, more alive when he’d started bamming her, as if her mind had caught a spark and was lit.

“Let’s go look inside. I want to make sure the leak hasn’t worsened the mold on the walls.” Eustace turned and entered the church, then popped his head back out. “That is, if you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not,” Lucy said.

Eustace grinned. “Good girl.” He disappeared back inside.

Lucy followed slowly, trailing her hands over the weathered tombstones in the churchyard. The Maiden Hill church had stood here since shortly after the Conqueror had landed. Her ancestors hadn’t been here that long, but many Craddock-Hayes bones graced their small mausoleum in the corner of the cemetery. As a girl, she’d played here after church on Sundays. Her parents had met and married in Maiden Hill and spent their entire life here, or at least Mama had. Papa had been a sea captain and had sailed around the world, as he liked to tell anyone who would listen. David was a sailor as well. He was on the ocean at this very moment, perhaps nearing an exotic port of call. For a moment Lucy felt a stab of envy. How wonderful it would be to choose one’s own destiny, to decide to become a doctor or artist or sailor on the open seas. She had a fancy that she wouldn’t be half bad as a sailor. She’d stand on the poop deck, the wind in her hair, the sails creaking overhead, and—

Eustace looked round the church door. “Coming?”

Lucy blinked and conjured a smile. “Of course.”

SIMON EXTENDED HIS RIGHT ARM at shoulder height and very carefully lifted it. Flames of pain pulsed across his shoulder and down the arm. Damn. It was the day after he’d woken to find Miss Craddock-Hayes sitting beside him—and he hadn’t seen her since. A fact that irritated him. Was she avoiding him? Or worse—did she just not feel inclined to visit him again? Maybe he’d bored her.

He winced at that depressing thought. His head was better, and they’d removed the ridiculous bandages, but his back still felt like it was on fire. Simon lowered the arm and breathed deeply while the pain subsided to a dull ache. He looked down at his arm. His shirtsleeve ended six inches short of his wrist. This was because the shirt he was wearing belonged to David, the absent brother of the angel. Judging from the length of the garment, which made rising from the bed embarrassing, the brother was a midget.

Simon sighed and glanced around the little room. The one window had begun to darken with night. The room was large enough to hold the bed—which was rather narrow for his taste—a wardrobe and dresser, a single table by the bed, and two chairs. That was all. Spartan by his standards, but not a bad place to convalesce in, especially since there was no other choice. At the moment, the fire was dying, making the room chill. But the cold was the least of his worries. He needed his right arm to hold a sword. Not just to hold it, but to parry, riposte, and repel. And to kill.

Always to kill.

His enemies may not have murdered him, but they’d certainly disabled his right arm, at least for a while—maybe permanently. Not that it would stop him in his duty. They’d killed his brother after all. Nothing but death could stop him in his pursuit of vengeance. Nevertheless, he must be able to defend himself when next they attacked. He gritted his teeth against the pain and raised the arm again. He’d dreamed last night of fingers again. Fingers blooming like bloody buttercups in the green grass at Peller’s feet. In his dream, Peller had tried to pick up his severed digits, horribly scrabbling in the grass with his mutilated hands. . . .

The door opened and the angel entered, carrying a tray. Simon turned to her gratefully, glad to push aside the madness in his mind. Like the last time he’d seen her, she was dressed in nun gray with her dark hair pulled into a simple knot at the back of her neck. Probably she had no idea how erotic a woman’s nape could be when exposed. He could see little wisps of hair curling there and the beginning of the delicate slope of her white shoulders. Her skin would be soft, vulnerable, and if he ran his lips along that angle where shoulder met neck, she would shiver. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought, like a half-wit given a cherry pie.