The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(11)

“The love of my life is named Mrs. Brodie?”

“Yes, that’s because she’s married to Mr. Brodie, who is away at sea at present.” She sat in the chair by his bedside and looked at him. “You might be interested to know that he is considered the strongest man in Maiden Hill.”

“Is he? And by that remark, I suppose you wish to cast aspersions on my strength?”

Her gaze wandered over his form, and his breath quickened.

“You are lying in bed recovering from a near-fatal beating,” she murmured.

“A mere technicality,” he said airily.

“But a decisive one.”

“Hmm.” He forked up some of the pie. “I don’t suppose there is red wine as well?”

She gave him a chiding look. “Water for now.”

“Too much to hope for, I agree.” He swallowed a meat-filled bite. “Yet the wise men do counsel us to be content with what we have and so I shall.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said dryly. “Is there a reason you’re torturing yourself by exercising your arm?”

He avoided her topaz eyes. “Boredom, simple boredom, I’m afraid.”

“Indeed?”

He’d forgotten how quick she was. He smiled charmingly. “I didn’t get very far with my fairy tale last night.”

“Do you really have a niece?”

“Of course I do. Would I lie to you?”

“I think, yes. And you don’t seem the kind of man who would be a doting uncle.”

“Ah. What kind of man do I seem to you?” he asked without thinking.

She cocked her head. “One who tries too hard to hide his soul.”

Good God. For the life of him he didn’t know how to reply to that.

Her lips twitched in that bewitching way she had. “My lord?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, now as to my fairy tale, where was I?” What a spineless ass he was! Next he would be fleeing toddlers with sticks. “Poor Angelica, the goat maid, the tall, white castle, and—”

“The prince who wasn’t the Serpent Prince.” She conceded defeat and picked up a charcoal stick. She’d brought a different book this time—one bound in sapphire blue—and she opened it now, presumably to draw his story.

A great feeling of relief came over him that she wouldn’t pursue her questions, wouldn’t find him out—at least not yet. Maybe never, if he was lucky.

He tucked into the pie, speaking between bites. “Quite. The prince who wasn’t the Serpent Prince. Need I mention that this prince was a fine, handsome fellow with golden curling hair and sky-blue eyes? In fact, he was almost as beautiful as Angelica herself, who rivaled the sparkle of the stars with her midnight tresses and eyes the color of treacle.”

“Treacle.” Her voice had a disbelieving, flat tone, but her mouth pursed as if she fought back a smile.

How he wanted to make her smile. “Mmm, treacle,” he said softly. “Ever noticed how pretty treacle is when light shines through it?”

“I’ve only noticed how very sticky it is.”

He ignored that. “Now, although poor Angelica was as beautiful as a celestial orb, there was no one about to notice. She had only the goats to keep her company. So imagine her thrill when she did catch a glimpse of the prince. He was a person far, far above her, both literally and figuratively, and she longed to meet him. To gaze into his eyes and watch the expressions on his face. Merely that, for she dared not hope to even speak to him.”

“Why not?” Miss Craddock-Hayes murmured the question.

“To be frank, it was the goats,” he said solemnly. “Angelica was rather conscious of the odor she’d picked up from them.”

“Of course.” Her lips twitched, reluctantly forming a curving smile.

And a strange thing happened. His cock twitched as well, although what it formed was definitely not a curve—or a smile, for that matter. Good Lord, how gauche to become blue-veined over a girl’s smile. Simon coughed.

“Are you all right?” She’d lost the smile—thank God—but now she was looking at him with concern, which was not an emotion he usually elicited in the fairer sex.

His pride would never recover from this low. “I’m fine.” He took a drink of water. “Where was I? Ah, yes, so it seemed that Angelica would spend the rest of her days mooning about for the golden-haired prince, doomed to never even be on the same level as he. But one day something happened.”

“I should hope so; otherwise, this would be a terribly short fairy tale,” Miss Craddock-Hayes said. She’d turned back to her sketchbook.

He chose to disregard her interruption. “Late one evening, Angelica went to herd her goats home, and as she did every night, she counted them. But on this night the count was one short. The smallest of her goats, a black nanny with one white foot, was missing. Just then she heard a very faint bleat that seemed to come from the cliff on which the castle was built. She looked but saw nothing. Again the bleat came. So Angelica climbed as close as she could to the cliff, always following the bleating, and imagine her surprise when she discovered a crack in the rock.”

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.