The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(31)

“Listen.” Simon placed his mouth next to her ear, his lips caressing her with each word. “At the next shot, we run. He has only the one rifle, and he has to reload. When he—”

A ball burrowed into the ground inches from her face.

“Now!”

Simon pulled her to her feet and ran before she had time to even register his command. Lucy panted to keep up, expecting any minute to feel the next shot between her shoulder blades. How long did it take to reload a gun? Only minutes, surely. Her breath rasped painfully in her chest.

Then Simon was shoving her ahead of him. “Go! Into the woods. Keep running!”

He wanted her to leave him? Dear God, he would die. “But—”

“He’s after me.” He glared fiercely into her eyes. “I cannot defend myself with you here. Go now!”

His last word coincided with the blast of yet another shot. Lucy turned and ran, not daring to look behind her, not daring to stop. She sobbed once and then the woods enveloped her in cool darkness. She ran as best she could, stumbling through the undergrowth, the branches catching on her cloak, tears of fear and anguish streaming down her face. Simon was back there, unarmed, confronting a man with a gun. Oh, God! She wanted to go back, but she couldn’t—with her out of the way, he at least had a chance against their attacker.

Footsteps sounded heavily behind her.

Lucy’s heart pounded right into her throat. She turned to face her attacker, her fists raised in puny defiance.

“Hush, it’s me.” Simon clasped her to his heaving chest, his breath panting across her face. “Shh, it’s all right. You are so brave, my lady.”

She laid her head against his chest and heard the pounding of his heart. She clutched the fabric of his coat with both hands. “You’re alive.”

“Yes, of course. I fear men like me never—”

He stopped because she couldn’t keep back a choked sob.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a more grave voice. He tilted her face away from his chest and wiped her tears with the palm of his hand. He looked concerned and weary and uncertain. “Don’t cry, sweeting. I’m not worth it, really I’m not.”

Lucy frowned and tried to blink away the tears that kept coming. “Why do you always say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

She shook her head. “You are very, very important to me, and I’ll cry for you if I want.”

The corner of his mouth curved up tenderly, but he didn’t mock her silly speech. “I am humbled by your tears.”

Lucy looked away; she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. “The shooter, is he . . . ?”

“He’s gone, I think,” Simon murmured. “A rather rickety farmer’s cart came along the road, drawn by a swaybacked gray. The cart was filled with laborers, and it must’ve scared the shooter off.”

Lucy puffed out a laugh. “The Jones boys. They’ve been useful for once in their lives.” Then a sudden thought struck and she leaned back to look at him. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” He smiled at her, but she could tell by his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. “We’d better get you home and then . . .”

She waited, but he’d trailed off again, thinking.

“Then what?” she prompted.

He turned his head so his lips brushed across her cheek, and she almost missed his words. “Then I need to leave this place. To protect you.”

“SHOT AT!” CAPTAIN CRADDOCK-HAYES roared an hour later.

All at once, Simon could see the iron hand that had commanded a ship and men for thirty years. He half expected the diamond segments in the windowpanes to rattle right out of their lead frames. They were in the formal sitting room of the Craddock-Hayes house. It was prettily decorated—puce-and-cream-striped curtains, similarly colored settees scattered here and there, and a rather nice china clock on the mantel—but he preferred Lucy’s little sitting room at the back of the house.

Not that he’d been given a choice.

“My daughter, a flower of womanhood, a meek and dutiful gel.” The captain paced the length of the room, arm batting the air for emphasis, bandy legs stomping. “Innocent of the ways of the world, sheltered all her life, accosted not half a mile from her childhood home. Ha! Haven’t had a murder in Maiden Hill in a quarter century. Five and twenty years! And then you show up.”

The captain halted in midpace between the mantel and a table set with naval bric-a-brac. He drew an enormous breath. “Scoundrel!” he blasted, nearly taking Simon’s eyebrows off. “Ruffian! Cad! Vile endangerer of English, ah, er . . .” His lips moved as he searched for the word.

“Wenches,” Hedge supplied.

The manservant had brought in the tea earlier, instead of Betsy or Mrs. Brodie, apparently to deny Simon the succor of female sympathy. Hedge still lurked, fiddling with the silverware as an excuse, listening eagerly.

The captain glared. “Ladies.” He transferred his glower to Simon. “Never have I heard of such villainy, sirrah! What do you have to say for yourself? Eh? Eh?”

“I say you’re quite right, Captain.” Simon leaned back wearily on the settee. “Except for the ‘meek and dutiful’ part. With all due respect, sir, I’ve not noticed Miss Craddock-Hayes to be either.”