Lucy had heard all of this before. In the three years they’d been courting, Eustace had often brought her by the church, perhaps because that was where he felt most in command. She listened with half an ear and strolled behind him. She couldn’t imagine the sardonic viscount going on and on about a roof, especially a church roof. In fact, she winced to think what he would say about the matter—something sharp, no doubt. Not that the viscount’s probable reaction made church roofs unimportant. Someone had to look out for the details that kept life running, and in a small village, the matter of a church roof leaking was rather large.
The viscount most likely spent his days—and nights—in the company of ladies like himself. Frivolous and witty, their only care the trimming on their gown and the style of their hair. Such people had very little use in her world. Still . . . the viscount’s banter was amusing. She’d suddenly felt more awake, more alive when he’d started bamming her, as if her mind had caught a spark and was lit.
“Let’s go look inside. I want to make sure the leak hasn’t worsened the mold on the walls.” Eustace turned and entered the church, then popped his head back out. “That is, if you don’t mind?”
“No, of course not,” Lucy said.
Eustace grinned. “Good girl.” He disappeared back inside.
Lucy followed slowly, trailing her hands over the weathered tombstones in the churchyard. The Maiden Hill church had stood here since shortly after the Conqueror had landed. Her ancestors hadn’t been here that long, but many Craddock-Hayes bones graced their small mausoleum in the corner of the cemetery. As a girl, she’d played here after church on Sundays. Her parents had met and married in Maiden Hill and spent their entire life here, or at least Mama had. Papa had been a sea captain and had sailed around the world, as he liked to tell anyone who would listen. David was a sailor as well. He was on the ocean at this very moment, perhaps nearing an exotic port of call. For a moment Lucy felt a stab of envy. How wonderful it would be to choose one’s own destiny, to decide to become a doctor or artist or sailor on the open seas. She had a fancy that she wouldn’t be half bad as a sailor. She’d stand on the poop deck, the wind in her hair, the sails creaking overhead, and—
Eustace looked round the church door. “Coming?”
Lucy blinked and conjured a smile. “Of course.”
SIMON EXTENDED HIS RIGHT ARM at shoulder height and very carefully lifted it. Flames of pain pulsed across his shoulder and down the arm. Damn. It was the day after he’d woken to find Miss Craddock-Hayes sitting beside him—and he hadn’t seen her since. A fact that irritated him. Was she avoiding him? Or worse—did she just not feel inclined to visit him again? Maybe he’d bored her.
He winced at that depressing thought. His head was better, and they’d removed the ridiculous bandages, but his back still felt like it was on fire. Simon lowered the arm and breathed deeply while the pain subsided to a dull ache. He looked down at his arm. His shirtsleeve ended six inches short of his wrist. This was because the shirt he was wearing belonged to David, the absent brother of the angel. Judging from the length of the garment, which made rising from the bed embarrassing, the brother was a midget.
Simon sighed and glanced around the little room. The one window had begun to darken with night. The room was large enough to hold the bed—which was rather narrow for his taste—a wardrobe and dresser, a single table by the bed, and two chairs. That was all. Spartan by his standards, but not a bad place to convalesce in, especially since there was no other choice. At the moment, the fire was dying, making the room chill. But the cold was the least of his worries. He needed his right arm to hold a sword. Not just to hold it, but to parry, riposte, and repel. And to kill.
Always to kill.
His enemies may not have murdered him, but they’d certainly disabled his right arm, at least for a while—maybe permanently. Not that it would stop him in his duty. They’d killed his brother after all. Nothing but death could stop him in his pursuit of vengeance. Nevertheless, he must be able to defend himself when next they attacked. He gritted his teeth against the pain and raised the arm again. He’d dreamed last night of fingers again. Fingers blooming like bloody buttercups in the green grass at Peller’s feet. In his dream, Peller had tried to pick up his severed digits, horribly scrabbling in the grass with his mutilated hands. . . .
The door opened and the angel entered, carrying a tray. Simon turned to her gratefully, glad to push aside the madness in his mind. Like the last time he’d seen her, she was dressed in nun gray with her dark hair pulled into a simple knot at the back of her neck. Probably she had no idea how erotic a woman’s nape could be when exposed. He could see little wisps of hair curling there and the beginning of the delicate slope of her white shoulders. Her skin would be soft, vulnerable, and if he ran his lips along that angle where shoulder met neck, she would shiver. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought, like a half-wit given a cherry pie.
She frowned austerely at him. “Should you be doing that?”
Most likely she was referring to his exercise, not the fatuous expression on his face. “Undoubtedly not.” He lowered his arm. This time it felt like only a thousand bees were stinging it.
“Then I suggest you stop and have some supper.” She put the tray down on the table by his bed and went to the hearth to stir the fire, returning with a taper to light the candles.
He raised his arm. “Ah. What delectable dishes do you have there? Pap in warm milk? A cup of beef tea?” Such had been the menu for the last two days. Hard, dry bread was beginning to sound downright delicious.
“No. A slice of Mrs. Brodie’s beef and kidney pie.”
He lowered the arm too fast and had to bite back a groan. “Really?”
“Yes. Now stop that.”
He inclined his head in a teasing half-bow. “As my lady commands.”
She arched her eyebrow at him but didn’t comment. Simon watched her remove the dish cover. Praise whatever saints would listen, the lady did not lie. A thick slab of meat pie reposed on the plate.
“Blessed, blessed lady.” He broke off a piece of crust with his fingers and almost wept when it touched his tongue. “Like the ambrosia of the gods. You must tell the cook that I am overwhelmed with devotion and will die if she won’t run away with me at once.”
“I’ll tell her that you thought the pie very good.” She placed a slice of pie on a plate and handed it to him.
He settled the plate on his lap. “You refuse to convey my offer of marriage?”
“You didn’t mention marriage the first time. You only offered to disgrace poor Mrs. Brodie.”
“The love of my life is named Mrs. Brodie?”
“Yes, that’s because she’s married to Mr. Brodie, who is away at sea at present.” She sat in the chair by his bedside and looked at him. “You might be interested to know that he is considered the strongest man in Maiden Hill.”
“Is he? And by that remark, I suppose you wish to cast aspersions on my strength?”
Her gaze wandered over his form, and his breath quickened.
“You are lying in bed recovering from a near-fatal beating,” she murmured.
“A mere technicality,” he said airily.
“But a decisive one.”
“Hmm.” He forked up some of the pie. “I don’t suppose there is red wine as well?”
She gave him a chiding look. “Water for now.”
“Too much to hope for, I agree.” He swallowed a meat-filled bite. “Yet the wise men do counsel us to be content with what we have and so I shall.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said dryly. “Is there a reason you’re torturing yourself by exercising your arm?”
He avoided her topaz eyes. “Boredom, simple boredom, I’m afraid.”
“Indeed?”
He’d forgotten how quick she was. He smiled charmingly. “I didn’t get very far with my fairy tale last night.”
“Do you really have a niece?”
“Of course I do. Would I lie to you?”
“I think, yes. And you don’t seem the kind of man who would be a doting uncle.”
“Ah. What kind of man do I seem to you?” he asked without thinking.
She cocked her head. “One who tries too hard to hide his soul.”
Good God. For the life of him he didn’t know how to reply to that.
Her lips twitched in that bewitching way she had. “My lord?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, now as to my fairy tale, where was I?” What a spineless ass he was! Next he would be fleeing toddlers with sticks. “Poor Angelica, the goat maid, the tall, white castle, and—”
“The prince who wasn’t the Serpent Prince.” She conceded defeat and picked up a charcoal stick. She’d brought a different book this time—one bound in sapphire blue—and she opened it now, presumably to draw his story.
A great feeling of relief came over him that she wouldn’t pursue her questions, wouldn’t find him out—at least not yet. Maybe never, if he was lucky.
He tucked into the pie, speaking between bites. “Quite. The prince who wasn’t the Serpent Prince. Need I mention that this prince was a fine, handsome fellow with golden curling hair and sky-blue eyes? In fact, he was almost as beautiful as Angelica herself, who rivaled the sparkle of the stars with her midnight tresses and eyes the color of treacle.”
“Treacle.” Her voice had a disbelieving, flat tone, but her mouth pursed as if she fought back a smile.
How he wanted to make her smile. “Mmm, treacle,” he said softly. “Ever noticed how pretty treacle is when light shines through it?”
“I’ve only noticed how very sticky it is.”
He ignored that. “Now, although poor Angelica was as beautiful as a celestial orb, there was no one about to notice. She had only the goats to keep her company. So imagine her thrill when she did catch a glimpse of the prince. He was a person far, far above her, both literally and figuratively, and she longed to meet him. To gaze into his eyes and watch the expressions on his face. Merely that, for she dared not hope to even speak to him.”
“Why not?” Miss Craddock-Hayes murmured the question.
“To be frank, it was the goats,” he said solemnly. “Angelica was rather conscious of the odor she’d picked up from them.”
“Of course.” Her lips twitched, reluctantly forming a curving smile.
And a strange thing happened. His cock twitched as well, although what it formed was definitely not a curve—or a smile, for that matter. Good Lord, how gauche to become blue-veined over a girl’s smile. Simon coughed.
“Are you all right?” She’d lost the smile—thank God—but now she was looking at him with concern, which was not an emotion he usually elicited in the fairer sex.
His pride would never recover from this low. “I’m fine.” He took a drink of water. “Where was I? Ah, yes, so it seemed that Angelica would spend the rest of her days mooning about for the golden-haired prince, doomed to never even be on the same level as he. But one day something happened.”
“I should hope so; otherwise, this would be a terribly short fairy tale,” Miss Craddock-Hayes said. She’d turned back to her sketchbook.
He chose to disregard her interruption. “Late one evening, Angelica went to herd her goats home, and as she did every night, she counted them. But on this night the count was one short. The smallest of her goats, a black nanny with one white foot, was missing. Just then she heard a very faint bleat that seemed to come from the cliff on which the castle was built. She looked but saw nothing. Again the bleat came. So Angelica climbed as close as she could to the cliff, always following the bleating, and imagine her surprise when she discovered a crack in the rock.”
