She drew in her breath. “Where were you?”
“Italy.” He raised the razor again. “Seeing the ruins and drinking.” Stroke. “And wenching, I’ll admit as well.” Wipe. “I didn’t know until a letter was sent. Ethan, steady, boring Ethan—Ethan the good son—my brother, Ethan had been killed in a duel. I thought it was a joke; I came home anyway.” Stroke. “I’d wearied of Italy by that time. Fine wine or no, there are only so many ruins one can see. I rode to the Iddesleigh family estate and . . .”
He took some time wiping the blade this time. His gaze was averted from hers, but she could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.
“It was winter and they’d preserved his body for my return. Couldn’t hold the funeral without me, it seems. Not that there were many mourners waiting, only Rosalind, nearly prostrate with shock and grief, and Pocket and the priest. No one else was there. They’d been shunned. Ruined.” He looked up at her, and she noticed that he’d cut himself under the left earlobe. “They did more than just kill him, Lucy, they destroyed his name. Destroyed Rosalind’s reputation. Destroyed Pocket’s hopes of ever marrying well, although she’s too young to know that yet.” He frowned and finished shaving without saying anything else.
Lucy watched him. What was she to do? She could understand his reasons for wanting vengeance only too well. If someone had done such a wrong to David, her brother, or to Papa, she, too, would seethe with indignation. But that still didn’t make killing right. And what of the cost to Simon, in both body and soul? He couldn’t have fought all those duels without losing a part of himself. Could she simply sit by while he annihilated himself in vengeance for a dead brother?
He washed his face and dried it off and then walked to where she sat. “May I join you?”
Did he think she’d refuse him? “Yes.” She scooted backward to make room.
He shucked his breeches and blew out the candle. She felt the bed dip as he climbed in. She waited, but he didn’t move toward her. Finally she rolled against him. He hesitated, then put his arm around her.
“You never finished the fairy tale you were telling me,” she whispered against his chest.
She felt his sigh. “Do you really want to hear it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very well, then.” His voice floated to her in the dark. “As you recall, Angelica wished for another dress even more beautiful than the first. So the Serpent Prince showed her a sharp silver dagger and bade her cut off his right hand.”
Lucy shivered; she’d forgotten that part.
“The goat girl did as he told her, and a silver dress trimmed with hundreds of opals appeared. It looked like moonlight.” He stroked her hair. “And she went off and had a jolly good time at the ball with pretty Prince Rutherford and returned late—”
“But what about the Serpent Prince?” she interrupted. “Wasn’t he in great pain?”
His hand paused. “Of course.” He resumed stroking. “But it was what Angelica wanted.”
“What a selfish girl.”
“No. Just poor and alone. She couldn’t help demanding beautiful clothes any more than the snake could help having scales. It’s simply the way God made them.”
“Hmm.” Lucy wasn’t convinced.
“Anyway.” He patted her shoulder. “Angelica returned and told the Serpent Prince all about the ball and pretty Rutherford and how everyone admired her gown, and he listened silently and smiled at her.”
“And I suppose the next evening she wanted a new dress for silly Rutherford.”
“Yes.”
He stopped and she listened to his breathing in the darkness for a few minutes.
“Well?” she prompted.
“But of course it must be even more beautiful than the last.”
“Of course.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “The Serpent Prince said nothing was easier. He could get her the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, the most beautiful dress in the world.”
Lucy hesitated. This didn’t sound good for some reason. “She must cut off his other hand?”
“No.” He sighed wistfully in the dark. “His head.”
Lucy jerked back. “That’s awful!”
She felt his shrug. “The most beautiful dress, the ultimate sacrifice. The Serpent Prince knelt before the goat girl and presented his neck. Angelica was appalled, of course, and she did hesitate, but she was in love with Prince Rutherford. How else could a goat girl win a prince? In the end, she did as the Serpent Prince instructed and cut off his head.”
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 t
o 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?”
“No, she did not, the imp.” He scratched his chest. “Much like you, she wanted to talk.”
“I’m sorry. I can stop.”
“No,” he whispered. “I like talking to you like this.” He linked his fingers with hers on his chest.
“What did you talk about?”
He seemed to think for a bit. Finally, he sighed. “She told me Ethan used to talk to her when she had a bad dream. He’d tell her about, oh, dolls and puppies and her favorite sweets. Things like that. Things to take her mind off the nightmare.”
Lucy smiled. “So you talked to her about puppies?”
“Actually, no.” She saw his quick grin in the brightening room. “More like how to drive a phaeton. What to look for in horseflesh. The proper way to brew coffee and where, exactly, it comes from.”
“Where does coffee come from?” She pulled the coverlet over her shoulder.
“I told her Africa, where Pygmy workers train crocodiles to climb the trees and whack the coffee beans down with their tails.”
Lucy laughed. “Simon . . .”
“What else was I to say? It was three o’clock in the morning.”
“Is that how you’ll comfort me?”
“If you wish.” His fingers flexed against hers. “We could discuss tea, Chinese versus Indian, and where it grows and whether it’s true that it must be picked only by perfect female children below the age of six wearing crimson silk gloves and working by the light of a blue moon.”
“And if I’m not interested in tea and its production?” Lucy drew her foot across one of his calves.
He cleared his throat again. “Then perhaps you’d be entertained by discussing various breeds of horses. Those best for carriages and those best for—”
“No.” She disengaged her hand from his and stroked down over his belly.
“No?”
“Definitely, no.” She touched his manhood, running her fingers up its length and smoothing over the head. She loved touching him.
For a moment he breathed heavily. Then he spoke. “Do you—”
She gently squeezed.
“Ah, have some other idea in mind?”
“Yes, I think I do.” Holding firmly to his erection, she turned her face and bit his shoulder. He tasted of salt and musk.
Apparently that was his breaking point. He suddenly rolled toward her. “Turn over.” His voice was husky.
She complied, rubbing her bottom against his groin.
“Minx,” he muttered. He arranged her over his lower arm so she lay in his embrace.
“I think you should tell me about rose culture,” she murmured solemnly.
“Do you, indeed?” He draped his upper arm over her and ran his hand across her breasts.
“Yes.” She’d never tell him, but she found his voice unbearably sensuous sometimes. Feeling him all along her back and hearing him, but not seeing his face, made her shiver with a sudden erotic chill.
“Well, soil is most important.” He pinched a nipple.
She watched his elegant fingers against her flesh and bit her lip. “Dirt?”
He squeezed harder, making her gasp with the sharp prick of desire. “We rose enthusiasts prefer the word soil. It sounds so much more serious.”
“How is soil different from dirt?” She bumped back against him. His hardness slid over her bottom and lodged in the groove. She felt surrounded by his hot body. It made her feel small. Feminine.
“Ahh.” He cleared his throat. “It just is. Now listen. Manure.”
She bit back an inappropriate giggle. “That’s not romantic.”
He gently pulled her nipple, and she arched in reaction. “The choice of topic was yours.” His fingers wandered to her other breast and tweaked the tip there.
She swallowed. “Even so—”
“Hush.” He inserted his leg between her own and rubbed up.
His thigh caressed her just there, and she closed her eyes. “Mmm.”
“Manure is the key to good soil. Some suggest ground cattle bones, but they are heretics fit only for raising turnips.” His hand skimmed over her belly and down. “The manure must be applied in the fall and allowed to overwinter. Too late application causes burning of the plant.”
“R-really?” All her attention was on that hand.
He traced one finger delicately through the crease between thigh and mons, almost tickling her. He brushed her maiden hair and came to the other crease, hesitating. She squirmed impatiently. She could feel herself warming, growing wet with just the anticipation of what he would do next.
“I see you understand the significance of good manure. Now, think of your excitement”—his hand darted down and parted her lips—“when I discuss compost.”
“Oh.” He’d inserted a finger right into her.
“Yes.” She felt him nod behind her but she hardly cared. “You have the makings of a great rose horticulturist.”
She tried to tighten her thighs around his hand, but his leg prevented her. “Simon . . .”
He withdrew the finger and speared her again. She clenched helplessly around him.
“Compost, according to Sir Lazarus Lillipin, should consist of one part animal manure, three parts straw, and two parts vegetable remains.”
Another finger found her pearl of flesh and she moaned. It seemed almost decadent that a mere man could bring her such pleasure.
“These,” he still nattered on behind her, “to be placed in layers within a pile until said pile reaches the height of a short man. Lillipin makes no mention of how wide the pile should be, a grave omission in my own, rather learned opinion.”
“Simon.”
“My angel?” He flicked his finger, but not quite hard enough.
She tried to arch into his hand, but he still kept her imprisoned between his legs. She cleared her throat, but her voice still emerged huskily. “I don’t want to talk about roses anymore.”
He tsked behind her, although his own breathing had roughened. “It can be a dull subject, I admit, but you have been a very good pupil. I think you deserve a reward.”
“A reward?” She would’ve smiled if she could’ve. Was that how he saw it? Vain man. She had a sudden flash of tender affection that made her want to turn
and kiss him.
But he raised her top leg over both of his. “A reward only given to the best lasses. The ones who listen to their horticultural masters and know their roses well.”
He was at her entrance. He parted her lips with his fingers and shoved a little in. She gasped and would’ve wriggled if he had let her. She’d forgotten how large— He pushed again. From this angle, she could feel every inch, widening, invading her.
“Only the best?” She hardly recognized her own voice; it was so low she seemed to purr.
“Uh, yes.” Her husband panted behind her.
“And am I the best?”
“God, yes.”
“Then, Simon?” she asked. A primitive sort of power filled her.
“Hmm?”
“I deserve more. I want more. I want all of you.” And she did. She wanted both man and mind, his body and his soul, and she was shocked at her own greed.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, and shoved his entire length into her.
She moaned and tried to close her legs. She felt so full of him. He kept her legs splayed open with his own, his clever fingers found that spot on her again, and he started thrusting. So good. She wanted him like this forever, his flesh merged with hers, his attention totally on her. No conflict could trouble them here when they were together. She arched her head back, under his own, and found his mouth. He kissed her deeply as he continued to thrust in and out of her, his flesh rubbing against and invading hers. A wail rose in her throat but he swallowed it. He pinched her gently on that vulnerable peak. And she fell apart, his manhood dragging in and out of her all the while as she gasped and panted.
Suddenly he withdrew. He flipped her to her belly, raised her hips a little, and thrust in again. Dear Lord. She was almost flat on her belly, and she could feel every inch of him. This position felt primitive, and with her recent release, it almost overwhelmed her senses.
“Lucy,” he groaned above her. He slowly drew himself out until only his tip lodged in her opening, wide and hard. And thrust heavily again. “My darling Lucy.” He panted against her ear, and then his teeth scraped her earlobe. “I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t ever leave me.”