“She sounds a patient mother.”
“She was.”
“When did she die?” His words were soft, intimate.
Lucy remembered again that this man had seen her at her most vulnerable. She gazed straight ahead. “Eleven years ago now. I was thirteen.”
“A hard age to lose a parent.”
She looked at him. The only family he’d mentioned was his brother. He seemed more intent on finding out her meager history than revealing his own. “Is your mother alive?” Obviously, his father must already be dead for him to have inherited the title.
“No. She died a few years ago, before . . .” He stopped.
“Before?”
“Before Ethan, my brother, died. Thank God.” He tilted his head back and seemed to stare at the leafless branches overhead, although perhaps he looked at something entirely different. “Ethan was the shining apple of her eye. Her one greatest accomplishment, the person she loved most in the world. He knew how to charm—both the young and the old—and he could lead men. The local farmers came to him with their squabbles. He never met a soul who didn’t like him.”
Lucy watched him. His voice was expressionless as he described his brother, but his hands twisted slowly at his waist. She wondered if he was even aware of their movement. “You make him sound like a paragon.”
“He was. But he was also more. Much more. Ethan knew right from wrong without having to think about it, without any doubts. Very few people can do that.” He looked down and seemed to notice that he was pulling at his right index finger. He clasped his hands behind his back.
She must’ve made a sound.
Simon glanced at her. “My elder brother was the most moral person I’ve ever known.”
Lucy frowned, thinking about this perfect, dead brother. “Did he look like you?”
He seemed startled.
She raised her brows and waited.
“Actually, he did a little.” He half smiled. “Ethan was a bit shorter than I—no more than an inch or so—but he was broader and heavier.”
“What about his hair?” She looked at his nearly colorless locks. “Was he fair as well?”
“Mmm.” He ran his palm over his head. “But more a golden color with curls. He left it long and didn’t wear wigs or powder. I think he was a bit vain about it.” He smiled at her mischievously.
She smiled back. She liked him like this, teasing and carefree, and suddenly realized that despite Simon’s careless manner, he was very rarely at ease.
“His eyes were a clear blue,” he continued. “Mother used to say they were her favorite color.”
“I think I prefer gray.”
He bowed with a flourish. “My lady honors me.”
She curtsied in reply, but then sobered before asking, “How did Ethan die?”
He stopped, forcing her to a halt as well. She looked up into his face.
He seemed to be struggling; his brows were pulled together over those beautiful ice-gray eyes. “I—”
An insect buzzed past her head, followed by a loud shot. Simon grabbed her roughly and pushed her into the ditch. Lucy landed on her hip, pain and astonishment streaking through her, and then Simon landed on her, squashing her into the mud and dead leaves. Lucy turned her head, trying to draw a full breath. It felt like a horse was sitting on her back.
“Don’t move, goddamnit.” He placed his hand over her head and pushed it back down. “Somebody’s shooting at us.”
She spat out a leaf. “I know that.”
Oddly, he chuckled in her ear. “Wonderful angel.” His breath smelled of tea and mint.
Another shot. The leaves exploded a few feet from her shoulder.
He swore rather colorfully. “He’s reloading.”
“Can you tell where he is?” she whispered.
“Across the road somewhere. I can’t pinpoint the exact location. Hush.”
Lucy became aware that aside from the problem with breathing and the fact that she might die violently at any second, it was rather nice having Simon lying on her. He was wonderfully warm. And he smelled quite nice, not of tobacco like most men, but of some exotic scent. Maybe sandalwood? His arms, bracketing her body, felt comforting.
“Listen.” Simon placed his mouth next to her ear, his lips caressing her with each word. “At the next shot, we run. He has only the one rifle, and he has to reload. When he—”
A ball burrowed into the ground inches from her face.
“Now!”
Simon pulled her to her feet and ran before she had time to even register his command. Lucy panted to keep up, expecting any minute to feel the next shot between her shoulder blades. How long did it take to reload a gun? Only minutes, surely. Her breath rasped painfully in her chest.
Then Simon was shoving her ahead of him. “Go! Into the woods. Keep running!”
He wanted her to leave him? Dear God, he would die. “But—”
“He’s after me.” He glared fiercely into her eyes. “I cannot defend myself with you here. Go now!”
His last word coincided with the blast of yet another shot. Lucy turned and ran, not daring to look behind her, not daring to stop. She sobbed once and then the woods enveloped her in cool darkness. She ran as best she could, stumbling through the undergrowth, the branches catching on her cloak, tears of fear and anguish streaming down her face. Simon was back there, unarmed, confronting a man with a gun. Oh, God! She wanted to go back, but she couldn’t—with her out of the way, he at least had a chance against their attacker.
Footsteps sounded heavily behind her.
Lucy’s heart pounded right into her throat. She turned to face her attacker, her fists raised in puny defiance.
“Hush, it’s me.” Simon clasped her to his heaving chest, his breath panting across her face. “Shh, it’s all right. You are so brave, my lady.”
She laid her head against his chest and heard the pounding of his heart. She clutched the fabric of his coat with both hands. “You’re alive.”
“Yes, of course. I fear men like me never—”
He stopped because she couldn’t keep back a choked sob.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a more grave voice. He tilted her face away from his chest and wiped her tears with the palm of his hand. He looked concerned and weary and uncertain. “Don’t cry, sweeting. I’m not worth it, really I’m not.”
Lucy frowned and tried to blink away the tears that kept coming. “Why do you always say that?”