Part 37 (1/2)
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. ”Ill.u.s.trate 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 la.s.s 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 ill.u.s.trating 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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 c.o.c.ked 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.”