The Leopard Prince (32 page)

And, of course, there were no angels in hell.

Simon watched her. His angel was all in gray, as befit a religious. She wrote in a great book, eyes intent, level black brows knit. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from a high forehead and gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her lips pursed slightly as her hand moved across the page. Probably noting his sins. The scratch of the pen on the page was what had woken him.

When men spoke of angels, especially those of the female sex, usually they were employing a flowery fillip of speech. They thought of fair-haired creatures with pink cheeks—both kinds—and red, wet lips. Insipid Italian putti with vacant blue eyes and billowy, soft flesh. That was not the type of angel Simon contemplated. No, his angel was the biblical kind—Old Testament, not New. The not-quite-human, stern-andjudgmental kind. The type that was more apt to hurl men into eternal damnation with a flick of a dispassionate finger than to float on feathery pigeon wings. She wasn’t likely to overlook a few flaws here and there in a fellow’s character. Simon sighed.

He had more than just a few flaws.

The angel must have heard his sigh. She turned her unearthly topaz eyes on him. “Are you awake?”

He felt her gaze as palpably as if she’d laid a hand on his shoulder, and frankly the feeling bothered him.

Not that he let his unease show. “That depends on one’s definition of
awake,
” he croaked. “I am not sleeping, but yet I have been more alert. I don’t suppose you have such a thing as coffee to hasten the awakening process?” He shifted to sit up, finding it more difficult than it should have been. The coverlet slipped to his abdomen.

The angel’s gaze followed the coverlet down and frowned at his bare torso. Already he was in her bad graces.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee,” she murmured to his navel, “but there is tea.”

“Naturally. There always is,” Simon said. “Could I trouble you to help me sit up? One finds oneself at a distressing disadvantage flat on one’s back, not to mention the position makes it very hard to drink tea without it spilling into the ears.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps I should get Hedge or my father.”

“I promise not to bite, truly.” Simon placed a hand over his heart. “And I hardly ever spit.”

Her lips twitched.

Simon stilled. “You’re not really an angel after all, are you?”

One ebony brow arched ever so slightly. Such a disdainful look for a country miss; her expression would’ve fit a duchess. “My name is Lucinda Craddock-Hayes. What is yours?”

“Simon Matthew Raphael Iddesleigh, viscount of, I’m afraid.” He sketched a bow that came off rather well in his opinion, considering he was prostrate.

The lady was unimpressed. “You’re the Viscount Iddesleigh?”

“Sadly.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“Here would be . . .?”

“The town of Maiden Hill in Kent.”

“Ah.” Kent? Why Kent? Simon craned his neck to try and see out the window, but the gauzy white curtain obscured it.

She followed his gaze. “You’re in my brother’s bedroom.”

“Kind of him,” Simon muttered. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever been to the lovely town of Maiden Hill, although I’m sure it’s quite scenic and the church a famous touring highlight.”

Her full, red lips twitched again bewitchingly. “How did you know?”

“They always are in the nicest towns.” He looked down—ostensibly to adjust the coverlet, in reality to avoid the strange temptation of those lips.
Coward.
“I spend most of my wasted time in London. My own neglected estate lies in Northumberland. Ever been there?”

She shook her head. Her lovely topaz eyes watched him with a disconcertingly level stare—almost like a man. Except Simon had never felt stirred by a man’s glance.

He tsked. “Very rural. Hence the appellative
neglected.
One wonders what one’s ancestors were thinking, precisely, when they built the old pile of masonry so far out of the way of anything. Nothing but mist and sheep nearby. Still, been in the family for ages, might as well keep it.”

“How good of you,” the lady murmured. “But it does make me wonder,” she continued, “why we found you only a half mile from here if you’ve never been in the area before?”

Quick, wasn’t she? And not at all sidetracked by his blather. Intelligent women were such a bother.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Simon opened his eyes wide. “Perhaps I had the good fortune to be attacked by industrious thieves. Not content to leave me lie where I fell, they spirited me off here so I might see more of the world.”

“Humph. I doubt they meant for you to see anything ever again,” she said quietly.

“Mmm. And wouldn’t that’ve been a shame?” he asked, feigning innocence. “For then I wouldn’t have met you.” The lady raised a brow and opened her mouth again, no doubt to practice her inquisition skills on him, but Simon beat her to it. “You did say there was tea about? I know I spoke of it disparagingly before, but really, I wouldn’t mind a drop or two.”

His angel actually flushed—a pale rose wash coloring her white cheeks. Ah, a weakness. “I’m sorry. Here, let me help you sit up.”

She placed cool little hands on his arms—an unsettlingly erotic touch—and between them they managed to get him upright; although, by the time they did so Simon was panting. His shoulder felt as if little devils—or maybe saints, in his case—were poking red-hot irons into it. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again there was a cup of tea under his nose. He reached for it, then stopped and stared at his own bare right hand. His signet ring was missing. They’d stolen his ring.

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 me a letter?”

“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 open 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 downward.

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

There was a silence as she finished scratching out the letter; 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 broken hinge. On the right was a single sketch of a man asleep. Him. 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 overwash. “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 in the category of
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 print’s edges. He smiled into her eyes. “The tale of The Serpent Prince.”

She arched a brow. “I’ve never heard it.”

“I’m surprised,” he lied easily. “It was quite a favorite of my youth. Brings back fond memories 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 proscribed 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’s 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.”

She merely nodded this time. She’d picked up a pencil and begun sketching in her book, although he couldn’t see the page, so he didn’t know if she was illustrating his story or not.

“Angelica toiled every day, from the first light of dawn until the sun had long set, and all she had for company were the goats. The king’s castle was built on top of a cliff and the goat girl lived at the cliff’s base in a little stick hut. If she looked far, far up, past the sheer rocks, past the shining, white stone of the castle walls, to the very turrets themselves, sometimes she could just catch a glimpse of the castle folk in their jewels and fine robes. And once in a very great while she would see the prince.”

“The Serpent Prince?”

“No.”

She cocked her head, her eyes still on her drawing. “Then why is the fairy tale called ‘The Serpent Prince’ if he isn’t the Serpent Prince?”

“He comes later. Are you always this impatient?” he asked sternly.

She glanced up at him then as her lips slowly curved into a smile. Simon was struck dumb, all thought having fled from his mind. Her fine, jeweled eyes crinkled at the corners and a single dimple appeared on the smooth surface of her left cheek. She positively glowed. Miss Craddock-Hayes really was an angel. Simon felt a strong, almost violent, urge to thumb away that dimple. To lift her face and taste her smile.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want this.

“I’m sorry,” he heard her say. “I won’t interrupt again.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m afraid my head hurts. No doubt from having it bashed in the other day.” Simon stopped babbling as something occurred to him. “When, exactly, was I found?”

“Two days ago.” She rose and gathered her book and pens. “I’ll leave you to rest. I can address the letter to your valet in the meantime and post it. Unless you would like to read it first?”

“No, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Simon sank into the pillows, his ringless hand lax on the coverlet. He kept his voice casual. “Where are my clothes?”