The Serpent Prince
Page 37

“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.”
Her heart quaked. He was all around her. His weight against her back, his scent invading her senses as his flesh invaded her flesh. This was domination, pure and simple, and she found it unbearably erotic. A wave of pleasure rose again within her. Oh, let this moment continue. Let us be together forever. She was weeping, her physical ecstasy mixed and confused with a terrible feeling of impending loss she could not control.
“Lucy, I . . .” He thrust more roughly. Faster. He levered off her and pounded into her vulnerable body, and she felt his sweat spray her back. “Lucy!”
He grunted and shook, and she felt the warmth spread in her and couldn’t tell it apart—her climax from his seed planted within her.
THE FIRST THING SIMON NOTICED about Sir Rupert’s study was the prints on the walls. Botanical prints.
Behind him, Fletcher’s butler said, “Sir Rupert will see you shortly, my lord.”
He nodded, already advancing on an engraving that depicted a gnarled branch with delicate flowers above and, incongruently, the fruit below. On the bottom of the picture, in archaic script, was the legend, Prunus cerasus. Sour cherry. He looked at the next, framed in gilt: Brassica oleracea. Wild cabbage. The leaves were so ornately curled they might have been exotic bird plumes.
“I’d heard you had an interest in horticulture,” Sir Rupert said from the door.
Simon didn’t move. “I didn’t know you had one as well.” He turned to face his enemy.
Sir Rupert was leaning on a crutch.
Simon hadn’t expected that. Here only five minutes and he’d been surprised twice already. This wasn’t going as planned. But then he hadn’t really known how to plan this, the final confrontation. He thought he’d already finished everything when he’d faced Walker. He hadn’t dreamed there was another to pursue until the dying man confessed as much. He didn’t dare discuss it with Lucy. After this morning’s sweet lovemaking, he didn’t want to upset their fragile truce. Yet he still had to see that she was safe, which meant eliminating the last man. Please, God, soon. If he could do that without Lucy finding out, perhaps they still stood a chance.
“Would you like to see my conservatory?” Sir Rupert cocked his head, eyeing him like an amused parrot.
He was older than the other conspirators, had to be in order to have fathered Christian. But still, Simon hadn’t braced himself for the lines on the man’s face, the slight stoop to his shoulders, and the bit of flesh that wobbled under his chin. All proclaimed him a man over fifty years. Otherwise he would make a formidable opponent. Although shorter than he, Sir Rupert’s arms and shoulders were heavy with muscle. Were it not for his age and the cane . . .
Simon considered the offer. “Why not?”
The older man preceded him from the room. Simon watched Sir Rupert’s painful progress down the marble hall, his crutch echoing each time it hit the floor. Alas, the limp was not faked. They turned down a smaller hall, one that ended in an ordinary oak door.
“I think you’ll like this,” Sir Rupert said. He produced a key and inserted it into the lock. “Please.” His arm swept in front of him, indicating Simon should go first.
Simon raised his eyebrows and stepped over the threshold. Humid air bearing the familiar smells of loam and rot enveloped him. Above those scents floated a lighter aroma. It was an octagonal room made of glass from the floor upward. Around the edges and in clusters in the middle were every kind of fruiting citrus tree, each in its own enormous pot.
“Oranges, of course,” Sir Rupert said. He limped to his side. “But also limes and lemons and various subgroups of orangelets. Each has its own particular taste and smell. Do you know, I believe if you blindfolded me and gave me a fruit, I could tell which it was merely by scoring the skin?”
“Remarkable.” Simon touched a shiny leaf.
“I’m afraid I spend too much time and money on my little hobby.” The older man caressed a fruit, still green. “It can be consuming. But so, for that matter, can revenge.” Sir Rupert smiled, a kind, fatherly man surrounded by his artificial garden.
Simon felt a welling of hatred and carefully suppressed the emotion. “You seize the bull by its horns, sir.”
Sir Rupert sighed. “There seems little point in pretending I don’t know why you’ve come. We’re both too intelligent for that.”