“Goddamn,” Christian moaned.His breath blew in Simon’s face, foul with fear. His face was white and scarlet, the wash of blood on his left cheek only a shade darker than the freckles underneath. So young. Simon felt an absurd urge to apologize. He shivered; his blood-soaked shirt was freezing. It had begun to snow again. He looked at the sky over Christian’s head and thought, ridiculously, I shouldn’t have to die on a gray day.
Christian sobbed hoarsely.
“Stop!”
The shout came from behind him. Simon ignored it, bringing his sword up one last time.
But then de Raaf was there, his own sword drawn. “Stop, Simon.” The big man interposed his blade between them.
“What are you doing?” Simon panted. He was dizzy and only just kept from reeling.
“For the love of God, stop!”
“Listen to the man,” de Raaf growled.
Christian froze. “Father.”
Sir Rupert limped slowly through the snow, his face nearly as white as his son’s. “Don’t kill, him, Iddesleigh. I concede. Don’t kill my boy.”
“Concede what?” Was this a trick? Simon glanced at Christian’s horrified face. Not on the son’s part, at least.
Sir Rupert was silent, using his breath to laboriously walk closer.
“Jesus. Let’s get this skewer out of you.” De Raaf placed a fist on Simon’s shoulder and tugged Christian’s sword out with one swift motion.
Simon couldn’t keep a moan from escaping his lips. His vision darkened for a second. He blinked fiercely. Now wasn’t the time to faint. He was vaguely aware that blood was pouring from the wound on his shoulder.
“Christ,” de Raaf muttered. “You look like a butchered pig.” He opened the bag he’d brought with him and took out a handful of linens, wadding and shoving them into the wound.
God’s balls! The pain was near unbearable. “Didn’t you get a doctor?” Simon asked through gritted teeth.
De Raaf shrugged. “Couldn’t find one I trusted.” He pressed harder.
“Ouch.” Simon inhaled a hissing breath. “Goddamnit. So I have you to physic me?”
“Yes. Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Thank you,” Simon grunted. He looked at Sir Rupert, refusing to flinch as de Raaf tended his shoulder. “What do you concede?”
“Father,” Christian began.
Sir Rupert made a slashing motion with his hand, cutting him off. “I concede I am responsible for your brother’s death.”
“Murder,” Simon growled. He gripped his sword tighter, although de Raaf stood between him and the others, blocking the movement of his blade. The big man chose that moment to put his other hand at his back and press his palms together, squeezing the shoulder. Simon bit back an oath.
De Raaf looked pleased. “You’re welcome.”
Sir Rupert nodded. “Your brother’s murder. I am to blame. Punish me, not my son.”
“No!” Christian shouted. He lurched forward, limping like his father.
Simon saw the other man’s right leg was blood-soaked below the thigh. His sword had found its mark. “Killing your son would punish you most satisfactorily,” Simon drawled.
Edward, facing him, lifted his eyebrow so only he could see.
“Killing Christian also takes an innocent life,” Sir Rupert said. He leaned forward, both hands on the head of his cane, his eyes fixed on Simon’s face. “You’ve never killed an innocent before.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike me.”
For a moment no one spoke. The snow fell silently. Simon stared at his brother’s murderer. The man admitted it—all but crowed the fact that he’d arranged Ethan’s death. He felt hatred rise in him like bile at the back of his throat, nearly overwhelming reason. But however much he might loathe Sir Rupert, he was right. Simon had never killed an innocent man.
“What do you have in mind?” Simon asked finally.
Sir Rupert took a breath. He thought he’d won a concession, damn him. And he had. “I will pay you the price of your brother’s life. I can sell my London home.”
“What?” Christian burst out. Snowflakes had melted on his eyelashes like tears.
But Simon was already shaking his head. “Not enough.”
His father ignored Christian, intent on persuading Simon. “Our country estates—”
“What about Mother and my sisters?” Christian’s thin-wristed friend approached and tried to tend his wound, but Christian waved him away impatiently.
Sir Rupert shrugged. “What about them?”
“They haven’t done any wrong,” his son said. “Mother adores London. And what of Julia, Sarah, and Becca? Will you beggar them? Make it impossible that they ever marry well?”
“Yes!” Sir Rupert shouted. “They are women. What other avenue would you have me consider?”
“You would sacrifice their futures—their very happiness—to prevent me dueling Simon?” Christian stared incredulously.
“You are my heir.” Sir Rupert held out a shaking hand to his son. “You are the most important. I cannot chance your death.”
“I don’t understand you.” Christian pivoted away from his father, then gasped and wavered. His second hurried to him and offered his support.
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon interrupted. “You cannot pay for my brother’s death. His life has no price.”
“Damn you!” Sir Rupert drew a sword from his cane. “Will you duel a crippled man, then?”
“No!” Christian pulled away from his second.
Simon raised his hand, stopping the younger man’s surge forward. “No, I will not duel you. I find that I have lost my taste for blood.”
Long lost it, if the truth were known. He had never liked what he’d had to do, but now he knew: He could not kill Christian. He thought of Lucy’s fine, topaz eyes, so serious, so right, and almost smiled. He could not kill Christian because it would disappoint Lucy. So small a reason, but a crucial one nevertheless.
Sir Rupert lowered his sword, a smirk forming on his lips. He thought he’d won.
“Instead,” Simon continued, “you will leave England.”
“What?” The smile died from the older man’s face.
Simon raised an eyebrow. “You prefer a duel?”
Sir Rupert opened his mouth, but it was his son who replied. “No, he doesn’t.”
Simon looked at his former friend. Christian’s face was as white as the snow falling around them, but he stood straight and tall. Simon nodded. “You will accept banishment from England for your family?”
“Yes.”
“What?” Sir Rupert blustered.
Christian turned savagely on his father. “He has offered you—us—an honorable way out, without bloodshed or loss of fortune.”
“But where would we go?”
“America.” The young man turned to Simon. “That meets with your approval?”
“Yes.”
“Christian!”
Christian kept his eyes on Simon, ignoring his father. “I will see it done. You have my word.”
“Very well,” Simon said.
For a moment, the two men stared at each other. Simon watched an emotion—regret?—chase across the other’s eyes. He noticed for the first time that Christian’s eyes were almost the same shade as Lucy’s. Lucy. She was still gone from his life. That made two souls he had lost in as many days.
Then Christian straightened. “Here.” He held out his open palm. On it lay the Iddesleigh signet ring.
Simon took it from him and screwed the ring on his right index finger. “Thank you.”
Christian nodded. He hesitated for a moment, looking at Simon as if he wanted to say more, before he limped away.
Sir Rupert frowned, white lines etching themselves between his brows. “You’ll accept my banishment in return for Christian’s life?”
“Yes.” Simon nodded curtly, his lips thinning as he wavered on his feet. A few seconds more, that was all he needed. “You have thir
ty days.”
“Thirty days! But—”
“Take it or leave it. If you or any member of your family is still in England after thirty days, I will challenge your son again.” Simon didn’t wait for a reply; the other’s defeat was already etched in his face. He turned away and walked toward his horse.
“We need to get you to a physician,” de Raaf rumbled sotto voce.
“So he can bleed me?” Simon almost laughed. “No. A bandaging will suffice. My valet can do it.”
The other man grunted. “Can you ride?”
“’Course.” He said it carelessly, but Simon was relieved when he actually pulled himself atop his horse. De Raaf shot him an exasperated glance, but Simon ignored it, turning toward home. Or what had once been home. Without Lucy there, the town house became merely a building. A place to store his neckcloths and shoes, nothing more.
“Do you want me to accompany you?” de Raaf asked.
Simon grimaced. He held his horse to a gentle walk, but the movement still jarred his shoulder. “It would be nice to have someone here, should I fall ignominiously from my mount.”
“And land on your arse.” De Raaf snorted. “Naturally, I’ll ride you to your town house. But I meant when you go after your lady.”
Simon turned painfully in the saddle to stare at him.
De Raaf raised an eyebrow. “You are going to bring her back, aren’t you? She’s your wife, after all.”
Simon cleared his throat while he pondered. Lucy was very, very mad at him. She might not forgive him.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” de Raaf burst out. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to let her go?”
“Didn’t say that,” Simon protested.
“Mope about in that great house of yours—”
“I don’t mope.”
“Play with your flowers while you let your wife get away from you.”
“I don’t—”
“She is too good for you, granted,” de Raaf mused. “But still. Principle of the thing. Ought to at least try to bring her back.”
“All right, all right!” Simon nearly shouted, causing a passing fishmonger to look at him sharply and cross to the other side of the street.
“Good,” de Raaf said. “And do pull yourself together. Don’t know when I’ve seen you looking worse. Probably need a bath.”
Simon would have protested that as well, except he did indeed need a bath. He was still thinking of a suitable reply when they arrived at his town house. De Raaf dismounted his gelding and helped Simon swing down from his horse. Simon bit back a groan. His right hand felt leaden.
“My lord!” Newton ran down the front steps, wig askew, pot belly jiggling.
“I’m fine,” Simon muttered. “Just a scratch. Hardly bled at—”
For the first time in his employment, Newton interrupted his master. “The viscountess has returned.”
HER FINGERS WERE SPREAD OVER HER CLOSED EYES. Dear Lord. A shudder racked her frame. Protect him. Her knees were numb from the cold. I need him. The wind whipped against her wet cheeks.
I love him.A scrape came from the end of the aisle. Please, God. Footsteps, slow and steady, crunched on the broken glass. Were they coming to tell her? No. Please, no. She curled within herself, huddled on the ice, her hands still shielding her eyes, blocking out the dawning day, blocking out the end of her world.
“Lucy.” It was a whisper, so low she should not have been able to hear it.
But she did. She dropped her hands, raised her face, hoping, but not daring to believe. Not yet. He was bareheaded, ghastly white, his shirt covered in gore. Blood was crusted down the right side of his face from a cut on his brow, and he cradled one arm. But he was alive.
Alive.
“Simon.” She clumsily wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to get rid of the tears so she could see, but they kept coming. “Simon.”
He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before her.
“I’m sorry—” she started, and then realized she was speaking over his words. “What?”
“Stay.” He’d grasped her shoulders with both hands, squeezing as if he couldn’t believe her solid. “Stay with me. I love you. God, I love you, Lucy. I can’t—”
Her heart seemed to expand with his words. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I can’t live without you,” he was saying, his lips skimming her face. “I tried. There isn’t any light without you.”
“I won’t leave again.”
“I become a creature with a blackened soul—”
“I love you, Simon—”
“Without hope of redemption—”
“I love you.”
“You are my salvation.”
“I love you.”
He finally seemed to hear her through his own confession. He stopped still and stared at her. Then he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, his lips moving tenderly over hers, wanting, comforting. She tasted tears and blood and didn’t care. He was alive. Her sob was caught in his mouth as he opened it over hers. She sobbed again and ran her hands across the back of his head, feeling his short hair tickle her palms. She’d nearly lost him.
Lucy tried to pull back, remembering. “Your shoulder, your forehead—”
“It’s nothing,” he murmured over her lips. “Christian pricked me, that’s all. It’s already bandaged.”
“But—”
He suddenly lifted his head, his ice eyes staring into hers, melting. “I didn’t kill him, Lucy. We dueled, it’s true, but we stopped before anyone was killed. Fletcher and his family will go to America and never return to England.”
She stared at him. He hadn’t killed, after all. “Are there more duels?”
“No. It’s over.” He blinked and seemed to hear what he’d said. “It’s over.”
Lucy laid a hand on his cold, cold cheek. “Darling.”
“It’s over.” His voice broke. He bowed his head until his forehead rested on her shoulder. “It’s over and Ethan is dead. Oh, God, my brother is dead.”
“I know.” Gently she stroked his hair, feeling the sobs that he would not let her see shake his frame.
“He was such a pompous ass, and I loved him so much.”
“Of course you did. He was your brother.”
Simon choked on a laugh and raised his face from her shoulder. “My angel.” His gray eyes swam with tears.
Lucy shivered. “It’s cold here. Let’s go inside and get you into bed.”
“Such a practical woman.” He struggled to rise.
Lucy stood stiffly and put her arm about him to help him up. “And I insist on a physician this time. Even if I have to drag him away from his Christmas breakfast.”
“Christmas.” Simon stopped short, nearly knocking her down. “Is it Christmas?”
“Yes.” Lucy smiled up at him. He looked so confused. “Didn’t you know? It’s all right. I don’t expect a present.”
“But I have one for you, and one for Pocket as well,” Simon said. “A toy naval ship complete with sailors and officers and rows of little cannons. It’s really quite clever.”
“I’m sure it is. Pocket will adore it, and Rosalind will not approve, and I expect that’s your intention.” Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, Simon!”
He frowned. “What?”
“I invited Pocket and Rosalind to Christmas breakfast. I forgot.” Lucy stared up at him horrified. “What should we do?”
“We’ll inform Newton and Cook and leave it to them.” He kissed her forehead. “Rosalind is family, after all. She’ll understand.”
“Maybe so,” Lucy said. “But we can’t let them see you like this. We’ll at least have to get you cleaned.”
“I bow to your every wish, my angel. But humor me and open your present now, please.” He shut the conservatory door behind them and slowly made his way to the hall table where she’d earlier set the blue book. “Ah, it’s still here.” He turned with the battered rectangular package and held it out
, looking suddenly uncertain.
Lucy’s brow wrinkled. “Shouldn’t you at least lie down?”
He offered the package mutely.
Her mouth curved in a smile that she could not suppress. Impossible to be stern with him while he stood in front of her like an earnest child. “What is it?” She took the package. It was rather heavy, so she laid it on the hall table again to unwrap it.
He shrugged. “Open it.”
She began working at the string.
“I should’ve given you a wedding present before now,” he said beside her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck.
Lucy’s mouth twitched. Where was her sophisticated London aristocrat now? Funny that Simon would be so nervous about giving her a Christmas present. She unwound the string.
“You’re a viscountess, now, for God’s sake,” Simon was muttering. “I should’ve bought you jewels. Emeralds or rubies. Sapphires. Definitely sapphires and maybe diamonds.”
The paper fell away. A flat, cherrywood box lay before her. She looked at him questioningly. He raised his brows back at her. She opened the box and froze. Inside were rows of pencils, plain and colored, as well as charcoal, pastels, a tiny ink bottle, and pens. A smaller box held watercolors, brushes, and a little bottle for water.
“If you don’t like it or if something is missing, I can have the art supplier make another,” Simon said very rapidly. “Maybe a bigger one. And I’ve ordered several bound sketchbooks to be made, but they aren’t ready yet. Of course, I’ll be giving you jewels as well. Lots of jewels. A treasure trove of jewels, but this is just something small—”
Lucy blinked back tears. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and hugged him close, glorying in the familiar smell of him.
She felt Simon’s arms lift to embrace her, but she remembered then. “I’ve got something for you as well.” She handed him the blue book.
He opened it to the title page and smiled widely. “The Serpent Prince. However did you finish it so fast?” He began leafing through the pages, studying her watercolor pictures. “I suppose I ought to give this to Pocket. It was for her that I commissioned it, after all, but—” He choked as he reached the last page.
Lucy glanced at it, admiring the handsome silver-haired prince she’d painted next to the pretty goat girl. It really was a fine piece of work, even if she did say so herself.
The Serpent Prince Page 30