Penelope and Prince Charming

  Meagan had run to the window with the other ladies to cheer on the gentlemen. Sasha joined them, still in a daze, still bleating, “A logosh, by the saints.”

  No one was left to witness Damien scoop his mate into his arms and carry her away. Usually, a gentleman and his newly betrothed were followed to the bedchamber by their friends and servants, who shouted and sang and made ribald jokes.

  But only Petri followed them, in silence, up the stairs. The rest of the Nvengarians were out chasing the damned logosh, which, Damien thought, was probably just as well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Penelope had sensed the change in Damien as soon as he’d turned to help her to her feet in the ballroom. His eyes were wild, the darkest blue she’d ever seen them, his face hard and set.

  He carried her all the way up the stairs, though she was quite capable of walking them. Or perhaps she was not. Her blood pounded, and she was almost dizzy with desire.

  Damien had sliced one loop of the rope that bound their hands, and it had dropped away as he lifted her, but Petri had caught it up and now tossed it on the bed. Looking at the thin rope innocently lying there stirred something inside her. She was bound to him, that’s what the ceremony said, and now she’d be bound to him on that bed.

  Her hands went cold as she watched Petri deliberately remove Damien’s sash of office. He helped ease the coat from his shoulders, the sleeve of it shredded where the creature had caught him. She swallowed.

  When Petri reached for the cravat, Damien waved him away. She understood enough Nvengarian now to follow their exchange. “Out,” Damien said.

  Petri folded the coat over his arm and winked. “I’ll be right outside, sir.”

  “Not too close.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  With another knowing grin, Petri faded out the door and closed it softly.

  “What if there is more than one?” Penelope asked, standing stiffly in the middle of the room.”

  Damien paused in the act of tugging his cravat knot free. “What?”

  “What if there is more than one of those creatures? Whatever it was?”

  He resumed untying the knot and pulled the folds of the cravat from his neck. His bare brown throat came into view. “There should not have even been one. It is a creature from myth.”

  “Another Nvengarian folk tale?”

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat and untied the tapes of his lawn shirt. “The logosh. Legend has it that they were cursed a thousand years ago to live as half demon and half human, shunned by the rest of the world. But they are stories in books. They are not supposed to exist.”

  “One has just made a mess of my mother’s ballroom.” She tried to sound calm, a stoic Englishwoman who could face anything, but the shake in her voice betrayed her.

  He threw aside his waistcoat, and closed the distance between them. “Jesus, Penelope,” he breathed as he took her hands. “It could so easily have killed you.”

  “And you.” She pushed at him. “It tore your arm.” She fingered the slashes on his shirt, which were pink with blood.

  “He barely opened the skin.” Damien quickly slid out of his shirt, tossed it aside. She could feel the warmth he radiated, and wanted more than anything to place her palms on his chest, her fingers playing in his black hair.

  She touched the wound instead. He was right; it consisted of little more than parallel streaks through his flesh, not very deep.

  “Still, it might take infection. You should wash this, perhaps make a poultice.”

  She spoke distractedly. His broad chest covered hers as his hand slid behind her back. “Heal me, Penelope.”

  His sweaty, salty skin was an inch from her lips. She kissed the round of his shoulder, then daringly licked it.

  He made a raw noise, his hand tightening on her back. “I will need water,” she said.

  She stepped away from his enticing body and went to his washbasin, where she found hot water waiting, probably ordered by the efficient Petri. A cloth hung nearby, which she wet and wrung out, and brought it back to him.

  She had him sit while she washed his arm, drawing the wet cloth gently over the scratches. He watched her, closely scrutinizing with his blue, blue eyes, lashes flicking as he followed her movements.

  “You understand what this bonding ceremony meant, did you not?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Yes. We are betrothed, and now we may…” She broke off, face heating. She pretended to study his wound closely, rubbing away the already dried blood with her cloth.

  “Not only that. We are joined as one. We are life mates. Bound to one another and responsible for one another.”

  She glanced up. “But we are not married yet. I thought the wedding would take place in Nvengaria itself.”

  “It will.” He smiled. “The ceremony we just finished was the only one in the old days. The priests who wandered in to tame the barbarians imposed their own marriage ritual on top of ours, which is why we have two. The Catholic priests, not foolish, saw that our bonding ritual was important to us and agreed to let us keep it, as the betrothal ceremony before the Christian wedding. Of course, if they had not agreed to let Nvengarians keep their ceremonies, the priests would have been cut to pieces, and Nvengaria would still be pagan. The old ways are much revered.”

  She shot a startled glance at him as she finished wiping away the blood and laid the cloth on a table.

  “That is why children conceived after betrothal are not illegitimate,” he went on. “Because by Nvengarian custom, we are already married.”

  “Oh.”

  “But we are not married by English custom.” He touched her cheek. “So if you wish to run away, Penelope, you still may.”

  She lifted her gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, waiting. “Do you wish me to?”

  He stroked her lower lip with his thumb. “I need you. Not only for the prophecy, not only for Nvengaria.”

  “To prevent you being killed,” she whispered.

  “No, not even that. I need you for a far more basic reason than the one I came for.”

  “You need a princess.” Her body swam with heat. “You came here to find a princess, any princess.”

  “Perhaps I believed so when I started out from Nvengaria. Perhaps I still believed so when I arrived in Little Marching. I believed it until I saw you and I kissed you.” He cupped her cheek. “And then the world changed.”

  “That was the prophecy.”

  “I can blame many things on the prophecy. Sasha believes it guides the stars. I never meant for it to guide me. I never meant to love you.” He gave a mock sigh. “But I do, and so be it.”

  “You always know the right words to say. You are always Prince Charming.”

  He grimaced. “I do not feel charming at this moment. I am insane with wanting you. Any pretty words are accident.”

  Her own blood felt hot, but she was suddenly shy. She thought of the beautiful, golden-haired Russian countess and the thin, Hellenistic baroness. “Why should you want me? I am plain Penelope Trask.”

  He smiled. “Any man with eyes will want you. Seeing the shock on Egan McDonald’s face when he beheld you was worth my journey. He looked as though, I believe the English expression is, ‘a ton of bricks had fallen on him.’”

  Her blush spread. “Only two gentlemen asked to marry me, and neither wanted me. Perhaps Magnus did, but in an unsavory way. He did not want me in particular, any young woman would have done.”

  “If I ever see this Magnus, I will skewer him,” Damien promised. “Perhaps only two men proposed to you, Penelope, but I wager many more wanted you. They said nothing because you were an unmarried miss, but they wanted you. When they realize you are no longer an innocent, I will have to fight them off with a sharp sword.”

  She laughed. “You are very charming.”

  “I am not charming. I merely wish not to throw you on the bed too quickly and take what I want. You deserve for me to ravish you slowly.”

  “I do not
want to be slow.” She drew a breath. “I feel quite urgent.” She kissed his scraped flesh, which was clean now, and damp.

  “Urgent.” His breath was hot on her temple. “A good way of saying it.”

  She touched her tongue to the hard muscle of his arm. “What do I do?”

  “Unfasten your bodice.” He threaded his fingers through her hair, loosening it. “I want to look at you.”

  She obeyed. Her fingers were clumsy as she reached to unhook the five clips that held the bodice together in the back.

  Damien tried to keep his impatience at bay. He should move slowly with her, introduce her to the world of pleasure at a gentle pace. But his arousal wasn’t having any of it. He wanted to be inside her, and the wanting grew more frantic by the minute.

  He reached around her and pulled the placket apart, hooks tearing from the threads that held them. She gasped in surprise, but the look in her eyes told him she was just as needy as he.

  “Take off the dress,” he said.

  Obediently, she dropped the bodice from her shoulders, baring her arms and the half-stays that held her breasts snug, then slid the gown down her body, revealing a fine lawn underskirt. Quickly, she stepped out of the dress, then she shook it out and carefully laid it on a chair. He hid a grin at her practicality.

  She returned to stand before him, lovely in her undress. The underskirt softly brushed her legs, revealing their outline, and her breasts lifted against the press of the stays.

  “Would you like me to help you with your boots?” she asked.

  His heart beat faster. Normally he did not consider removing boots to be erotic, but offered by his newly bound life mate, from lips full and red, it became suddenly desirable. For answer, he held out his left foot.

  Penelope grasped his boot above his ankle. She bent, giving him a heady glimpse of the shadow between her breasts. Muscles in her slim arms worked as she tugged at the stubborn boot.

  It came away all at once, and she staggered back a step and nearly sat down on the chair behind her. “Oops,” she said.

  “Are you all right?”

  She straightened up, looked at the boot in her hand, looked at his stockinged foot, and began to laugh.

  It was a merry sound, true laughter, with none of the strain of the last weeks. Her eyes lit, her red mouth curved, and her body shook in a delightful way.

  In two seconds, Damien had his other boot off and was seizing her by the arms. She still laughed, holding the boot between them, and he kissed and licked her lips, dragging that laughter into him.

  He wanted to tell her he loved her, but need swallowed all words and all thought. He took the boot from her and dropped it on the floor, then crushed his hands through her hair and pulled her against him.

  He kissed her lips, her nose, her temple, her hair tangling in his mouth. He bit her shoulder, catching the lace strap of her stays in his teeth. Her thin fingers rubbed his arms through his shirt with a desperation that matched his own.

  He unhooked the stays and pulled them from her body, catching the weight of her breasts in his hands. The points hardened, the skin dark as he flicked his thumbs over them.

  She gasped, her eyes going heavy.

  His need wound into a wild frenzy, something inside him screaming finish it!

  Damien lifted her and carried her to the bed. He laid her down, and she rose up on her elbows while he tore at the buttons of his trousers. He yanked the trousers off, then his stockings. He looked up to see her watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, her gaze traveling with interested thoroughness down his torso to his staff standing straight out, straining for her.

  Her scrutiny would be flattering were he not so frantic. He climbed onto the bed, and she lay down, her hair fanning out against the pillows, her eyes dark under the canopy’s shadow. Her hands rested on either side of her head, soft and limp, not fighting him.

  He unfastened the tape that held her underskirt, and drew the skirt down her legs. She wriggled her hips, helping him draw it from under her bottom. She wore nothing beneath it. Her legs were shapely, thighs plump, rounded calves filling out her silk stockings, slender feet in beaded slippers.

  The golden hair between her legs already glistened with moisture. He lowered his head and licked it.

  She jumped, her gasp loud in the quiet. She tasted as heady as she had in the river a week ago, sweet and salty, honey with a bit of spice. He’d dreamed of her taste every night, wondering how he’d keep his hands off her until the ceremony.

  Now she was his, to do with as he pleased. He smiled at the thought. He drank her, then he flicked his tongue over the hardening nub at the swell of her sex. She squirmed beneath him. She was wet now, oh so wet, her thighs parting of their own accord, her body arching to his mouth.

  As he backed away, his hand fell on the discarded rope, the thin, silken strand Sasha had brought all the way from Nvengaria for the betrothal.

  Quickly, Damien twined his left hand through Penelope’s right one, and looped the rope tightly around joined wrists.

  “We are one, we are bound.” He said the words in Nvengarian, at the moment unable to translate to English. “I to you, and you to me. Forever.”

  She moved her fingers over his, caressing and slow, her eyes on the rope. Joined, bound, one.

  “Will you join with me all the way, Penelope?”

  So polite he sounded, when he was aroused too much to stop himself.

  She flicked her gaze back to him, her face still. She still had the chance to refuse him, to remain a virgin and daughter to her mother. He saw the flicker of indecision and what it meant for her to make the choice.

  “I want to join with you,” she whispered.

  His arousal throbbed once, wishing he’d get on with it. “Excellent,” he said, his voice as calm as if she’d agreed to take a stroll in the country with him.

  She smiled a little. “You like that word.”

  “It expresses much. I will try not to hurt you.”

  She sobered, her eyes going quiet. “I have heard that it hurts much.”

  “It does not have to, if I take my time.”

  Every muscle in his body screamed with impatience. He did not want to take his time, he wanted to pound himself into her, now.

  “Lift your hips a little,” he said. He dragged a small pillow to him from the cushion-strewn headboard. “I will place this under you, so. It will help me go in a little easier.”

  She blushed, but let him arrange the pillow beneath her backside, tilting her hips upward, her knees a little apart.

  Seeing her lying there, serenely waiting, her brow puckered with trepidation, wound his need to unbearable tightness. Her curls of hair were moist and ready, the petals of her parted, waiting.

  He rubbed the folds gently, and their moistness increased, the scent of her heady.

  “The beauty of you,” he said softly. He licked his finger, wetting it, and drew it between her folds.

  She writhed, her eyes going heavy, a woman drifting into arousal. He slid one finger inside, widening her.

  She moaned softly. “Will it feel like that?”

  “A bit.” He slid in a second finger. He had no time to ready her for something as big as he was, but he could help her a little.

  When he inserted a third finger, she made a soft noise and made to squeeze against him. He stroked the inside of her abdomen, slight pressure only, and her eyes widened.

  “Damien?”

  “Hush, love. Let me make you feel good.”

  She rose up on her elbows, her face flushed. “But I do not understand—”

  He stroked, lightly again, and she began to come, jerking silently against his hand, her breath ragged. Quickly he slid his fingers out, positioned his tip at her opening, and slid himself all the way inside.

  Penelope drew a sharp breath at the invasion. He was hard and thick and blunt and stretched her unbearably. It did hurt a little, but something within her wanted the hurt, wanted the joining.

  She st
ill throbbed from where he’d stroked his fingers inside her, which had sent her to strange and unbearable heights of pleasure. She did not know what he wanted, or what she wanted, or what her body wanted.

  He lay on top of her, still, his weight warm. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the hand that was tied to hers clenched her fingers tight.

  “Damien,” she whispered.

  He dragged his eyes open. “Shh, sweetheart.”

  His face was flushed, eyelids heavy, like he was drunk. She felt him full inside her, his arousal pulsing with his heartbeat.

  “Is this lovemaking?” She smoothed his hair. “Is it over?”

  “Do you want it to be over?”

  “No. Not yet. Not for a while.”

  He gave her a lazy smile. “It will not be. We have a long way to go.”

  The idea both frightened her and entranced her. She lay back, holding the hand bound to hers, waiting for him to proceed. Sweat trickled from between their wrists, palms sealed together. The room was close and still, the windows shut against the summer’s soft air. Petri, she knew, stood nearby, guarding them. She wondered about the passage that led from her room to Damien’s, but somehow she had a feeling that Damien had provided a guard for that, too. The Nvengarians were thorough.

  And yet, the creature had gotten into the house, into the ballroom, and attacked Damien. She remembered its twisted face, its sunken eyes, though she sensed it was not old. And, if she had not imagined it, she thought that when the being took in the mass of people screaming and fighting it, and herself staring over Damien’s shoulder, it had looked—confused.

  The thought drifted in the very back of her mind, to be examined later. The front of her thoughts kissed Damien, loving the feel of him in her mouth, of him inside her.

  He slowly drew himself out, then, just before the tip left her opening, he slid himself back inside, even farther this time.

  Her sudden cry rang to the ceiling. He moved again, out, in, stroking her slowly. She dug her fingers into his back, as she had done in the river, but this time, she gripped so tight she felt her nails break his skin.