The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(5)

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.”

Chapter Two

The angel was sitting by his bed when Simon Iddesleigh, sixth Viscount Iddesleigh, opened his eyes.

He would’ve thought it a terrible dream, one of an endless succession that haunted him nightly—or worse, that he’d not survived the beating and had made that final infinite plunge out of this world and into the flaming next. But he was almost certain hell did not smell of lavender and starch, did not feel like worn linen and down pillows, did not sound with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of gauze curtains.

And, of course, there were no angels in hell.

Simon watched her. His angel was all in gray, as befit a religious woman. She wrote in a great book, eyes intent, level black brows knit. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from a high forehead and gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her lips pursed slightly as her hand moved across the page. Probably noting his sins. The scratch of the pen on the page was what had woken him.