The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(7)

She mistook the reason for his hesitation. “The tea is fresh, I assure you.”

“Most kind.” His voice was embarrassingly weak. His hand shook as he grasped the cup, the familiar clink of his ring against the porcelain absent. He hadn’t taken it off since Ethan’s death. “Damn.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold it for you.” Her tone was soft, low and intimate, though she probably didn’t know it. He could rest on that voice, float away on it and let his cares cease.

Dangerous woman.

Simon swallowed the lukewarm tea. “Would you mind terribly writing a letter for me?”

“Of course not.” She set the cup down and withdrew safely to her chair. “To whom would you like to write?”

“My valet, I think. Bound to be teased if I alert any of my acquaintances.”

“And we certainly wouldn’t want that.” There was laughter in her voice.

He looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent. “I’m glad you understand the problem,” he said dryly. Actually, he was more worried that his enemies would learn that he was still alive. “My valet can bring down miscellaneous things like clean clothes, a horse, and money.”

She laid aside her still-open book. “His name?”

Simon tilted his head, but he couldn’t see the book’s page from this angle. “Henry. At 207 Cross Road, London. What were you writing before?”

“I beg your pardon?” She didn’t look up.

Irritating. “In your book. What were you writing?”

She hesitated, the pencil immobile on the letter, her head still bent down.

Simon kept his expression light, though he grew infinitely more interested.

There was a silence as she finished scratching out the address; then she laid it aside and looked up at him. “I was sketching, actually.” She reached for the open book and placed it on his lap.

Drawings or cartoons covered the left page, some big, some small. A little bent man carrying a basket. A leafless tree. A gate with one hinge broken. On the right was a single sketch of a man asleep. Himself. And not looking his best, what with the bandage and all. It was an odd feeling, knowing she had watched him sleep.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Not at all. Glad to be of some use.” Simon turned back a page. Here, some of the drawings had been embellished by a watercolor wash. “These are quite good.”

“Thank you.”

Simon felt his lips curve at her sure reply. Most ladies feigned modesty when complimented on an accomplishment. Miss Craddock-Hayes was certain of her talent. He turned another page.

“What’s this?” The sketches on this page were of a tree changing with the seasons: winter, spring, summer, and fall.

The rose tinted her cheeks again. “They’re practice sketches. For a small book of prayers I want to give Mrs. Hardy in the village. It’s to be a present on her birthday.”

“Do you do this often?” He turned another page, fascinated. These weren’t the pallid drawings of a bored lady. Her sketches had a kind of robust life to them. “Illustrate books, that is?” His mind was furiously working.

She shrugged. “No, not often. I only do it for friends and such.”

“Then maybe I can commission a work.” He looked up in time to see her open her mouth. He continued before she could point out that he didn’t fall under the heading friends. “A book for my niece.”

She closed her mouth and raised her eyebrows, waiting silently for him to continue.

“If you don’t mind humoring a wounded man, of course.” Shameless. For some reason it was important that he engage her.

“What kind of a book?”

“Oh, a fairy tale, I think. Don’t you?”

She took back her book and settled it on her lap, slowly turning to a blank page. “Yes?”

Oh, Christ, now he was on the spot, but at the same time he felt like laughing aloud. He hadn’t felt this lighthearted in ages. Simon glanced hurriedly around the little room and caught sight of a small, framed map on the opposite wall. Sea serpents frolicked around the edges of the print. He smiled into her eyes. “The tale of the Serpent Prince.”

Her gaze dropped to his lips and then hastily up again. His smile grew wider. Ah, even an angel could be tempted.

But she only arched a brow at him. “I’ve never heard it.”

“I’m surprised,” he lied easily. “It was quite a favorite of my youth. Brings back fond memories, that, of bouncing on my old nurse’s knee by the fire while she thrilled us with the tale.” In for a penny, in for a pound.

She gave him a patently skeptical look.

“Now let me see.” Simon stifled a yawn. The pain in his shoulder had died to a dull throb, but his headache had increased as if to make up for it. “Once upon a time—that’s the prescribed way to begin, isn’t it?”

The lady didn’t help. She merely sat back in her chair and waited for him to make a fool of himself.

“There lived a poor lass who made a meager living tending the king’s goats. She was orphaned and quite alone in the world, except, of course, for the goats, who were rather smelly.”

“Goats?”

“Goats. The king was fond of goat cheese. Now hush, child, if you want to hear this.” Simon tilted his head back. It was aching terribly. “I believe her name was Angelica, if that’s of any interest—the goat girl, that is.”