The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(100)

Christian kept his eyes on Simon, ignoring his father. “I will see it done. You have my word.”

“Very well,” Simon said.

For a moment, the two men stared at each other. Simon watched an emotion—regret?—chase across the other’s eyes. He noticed for the first time that Christian’s eyes were almost the same shade as Lucy’s. Lucy. She was still gone from his life. That made two souls he had lost in as many days.

Then Christian straightened. “Here.” He held out his open palm. On it lay the Iddesleigh signet ring.

Simon took it from him and screwed the ring on his right index finger. “Thank you.”

Christian nodded. He hesitated for a moment, looking at Simon as if he wanted to say more, before he limped away.

Sir Rupert frowned, white lines etching themselves between his brows. “You’ll accept my banishment in return for Christian’s life?”

“Yes.” Simon nodded curtly, his lips thinning as he wavered on his feet. A few seconds more, that was all he needed. “You have thirty days.”

“Thirty days! But—”

“Take it or leave it. If you or any member of your family is still in England after thirty days, I will challenge your son again.” Simon didn’t wait for a reply; the other’s defeat was already etched in his face. He turned away and walked toward his horse.

“We need to get you to a physician,” de Raaf rumbled sotto voce.

“So he can bleed me?” Simon almost laughed. “No. A bandaging will suffice. My valet can do it.”

The other man grunted. “Can you ride?”

“’Course.” He said it carelessly, but Simon was relieved when he actually pulled himself atop his horse. De Raaf shot him an exasperated glance, but Simon ignored it, turning toward home. Or what had once been home. Without Lucy there, the town house became merely a building. A place to store his neckcloths and shoes, nothing more.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” de Raaf asked.

Simon grimaced. He held his horse to a gentle walk, but the movement still jarred his shoulder. “It would be nice to have someone here, should I fall ignominiously from my mount.”

“And land on your arse.” De Raaf snorted. “Naturally, I’ll ride you to your town house. But I meant when you go after your lady.”

Simon turned painfully in the saddle to stare at him.

De Raaf raised an eyebrow. “You are going to bring her back, aren’t you? She’s your wife, after all.”

Simon cleared his throat while he pondered. Lucy was very, very mad at him. She might not forgive him.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” de Raaf burst out. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to let her go?”

“Didn’t say that,” Simon protested.

“Mope about in that great house of yours—”

“I don’t mope.”

“Play with your flowers while you let your wife get away from you.”

“I don’t—”

“She is too good for you, granted,” de Raaf mused. “But still. Principle of the thing. Ought to at least try to bring her back.”

“All right, all right!” Simon nearly shouted, causing a passing fishmonger to look at him sharply and cross to the other side of the street.

“Good,” de Raaf said. “And do pull yourself together. Don’t know when I’ve seen you looking worse. Probably need a bath.”

Simon would have protested that as well, except he did indeed need a bath. He was still thinking of a suitable reply when they arrived at his town house. De Raaf dismounted his gelding and helped Simon swing down from his horse. Simon bit back a groan. His right hand felt leaden.

“My lord!” Newton ran down the front steps, wig askew, pot belly jiggling.

“I’m fine,” Simon muttered. “Just a scratch. Hardly bled at—”

For the first time in his employment, Newton interrupted his master. “The viscountess has returned.”

HER FINGERS WERE SPREAD OVER HER CLOSED EYES. Dear Lord. A shudder racked her frame. Protect him. Her knees were numb from the cold. I need him. The wind whipped against her wet cheeks.

I love him.

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—”