The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(79)

Lucy bit her lip. She felt like weeping over this foolish fairy tale. “But he comes alive again, doesn’t he?”

“Hush.” His breath brushed across her face. He must’ve turned his head toward her. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Do.” She snuggled against him again and was still.

“This time the dress was truly magnificent. It was made all of silver with diamonds and sapphires strewn over it so that Angelica looked as if she were wearing light itself. Prince Rutherford was overcome with ardor or perhaps greed when he caught sight of her and immediately fell to his knees and proposed.”

Lucy waited, but he was silent. She poked him in the shoulder. “Then what happened?”

“That’s it. They married and lived happily ever after.”

“That can’t be the end. What about the Serpent Prince?”

She felt him turn toward her. “He died, remember? I suppose Angelica shed a few tears for him, but he was a snake, after all.”

“No.” She knew she was foolish to object—it was only a fairy tale—but she felt unreasonably mad at him. “He’s the hero of the story. He transformed himself into a man.”

“Yes, but he’s still part snake.”

“No! He’s a prince.” She knew somehow that what they were arguing about had nothing to do with the fairy tale. “That’s what the story’s called, The Serpent Prince. He should marry Angelica; he loved her, after all.”

“Lucy.” He gathered her into his arms, and she let him even though she was angry with him. “I’m sorry, angel, but that’s the fairy tale.”

“He doesn’t deserve to die,” she said. Tears pricked at her eyes.

“Does anyone? Whether he deserves it or not is neither here nor there; it’s simply his fate. You can no more change that than you can change the course of the stars.”

The tears had escaped and were rolling into her hair and, she very much feared, his chest. “But the fate of a man. That can be changed.”

“Can it?” he asked so low she almost didn’t hear.

She couldn’t answer, so she closed her eyes and tried to contain the sobs. And she prayed, Please, God, let a man be able to change his fate.

Chapter Sixteen

The dream woke her again in the early hours of the next morning.

Lucy opened her eyes in the gray light and stared at the embers in the fireplace without moving. This time she recalled fragments. She’d dreamed that Christian had dueled Lord Walker while Simon took tea and looked on. Lord Walker had already lost his eye, and he was quite angry, although it didn’t affect his swordsmanship. Which had made it all the more gruesome. Then Lucy had been there at the table with Simon. She poured the tea and sipped and then looked into her cup. The tea had been made of rose petals. It was red, like blood. And she’d been horrified. Maybe it really was blood. She’d put her cup down and refused to drink any more, although Simon urged her to. But she knew she couldn’t trust him because when she looked down, where his legs should have been there was a tail. A snake’s tail . . .

Lucy shivered.

She’d woken covered in sweat, and now her flesh was chilled. Her hand crept across the silk coverlet, and she touched a warm arm. Warm male skin. Despite the fact that they had their own bedrooms, each large enough to house an entire family, Simon had slept with her every night since their wedding, whether in her own room or, as tonight, in his. Lucy had the feeling that this wasn’t quite done in the ton, for a man to sleep with his wife, but she was glad. She liked having his warmth next to her. She liked hearing his deep breathing at night. And she liked the smell of him on her pillows. It was nice.

“Hmmph?” He rolled toward her and flung a heavy arm over her waist. His breathing deepened again.

Lucy didn’t move. She shouldn’t wake him just for a nasty dream. She snuggled her nose into his shoulder, inhaling his scent.

“What is it?” His voice was gravelly, low, but more awake than she’d thought.

“Nothing.” She ran her hand over his chest, feeling the hairs tickle her palm. “Just a dream.”

“Nightmare?”

“Mmm.”

He didn’t ask what about. Merely sighed and gathered her into his arms. Her legs slid along his, and she felt his erection bump her hip.

“Pocket used to have nightmares.” His breath blew against the top of her head. “When I stayed with them after Ethan’s death.”

He smoothed his hand down her back and patted her bottom, then settled there, warm and possessive.

“She had a nanny, but the woman must’ve slept soundly, because Pocket would slip past her and find her mother’s room.” He chuckled, his voice rusty. “And a couple of times she came to me. Scared the wits out of me the first time. Cold little hand touching my shoulder in the middle of the night, a high voice whispering my name. Nearly took a vow to swear off drink before bed.”

Lucy smiled against his shoulder. “What did you do?”

“Well.” He rolled to his back, still holding her, and stretched one arm over his head. “First of all, I had to figure out a way to put on my breeches. Then I sat with her in a chair by the fire. Wrapped a blanket about both of us.”

“Did she fall back asleep?”