If she said naughty words in his ear, the madman would fling aside the veneer of cultured prince and take her. And not feel guilty at all.
All humor fled him. His fingers still rested over her lips. With a crazed light in her eyes that matched his own, she touched her tongue to them.
“No,” he growled. “We must stop. Do you understand me? Something is trying to break the prophecy.”
“I thought you said the prophecy made us want each other,” she said against his fingers.
He moved his hand. “So I thought when I first entered this room. But my prophecy wants everything to happen at the correct time. Sasha knows the prophecy inside and out. If he says we wait, we wait. Something is trying to make us move too soon.”
“What is? More magic?”
“I do not know. Magic, from what Nedrak told me, works close to the bone. It stirs what is basic in us, underneath our reason.”
She shivered. “I do not like it.”
“There is joy in it. A release, rather like what we will feel when I finally take you.” He broke off, watching her eager, uncomprehending gaze. “Never mind. I am dying to give in, which means we must fight it.”
“How?” Her hands went to his chest.
“Think of something else. Ask me a question.”
“Um.” She drew a ragged breath, her fingers tracing the opening of his shirt. “Oh. Tell me a story.”
His racing heartbeat slowed a fraction. “A story?”
“Yes, a Nvengarian fairy tale. You told me you knew them, and that you’d tell me…”
“In bed. I remember.” His heartbeat increased again, imagining her lying on his pillow, her hair tangled with their lovemaking, while he murmured stories into her ear. “Yes, I will tell you stories. Let me think.”
Shoving his mind down the road of childhood, to the tales his old governess had told him before the nursery fire, did lessen the pain somewhat.
He remembered the high room in the Imperial castle, where wind whipped at the eaves. He remembered his creaking old governess, chosen because she was elderly and alone and no threat to the Imperial Prince, spinning stories in her rasping voice. Sometimes the stories made no sense; sometimes she fell asleep in the middle of them, but he remembered how they’d enchanted him.
He sorted through the memories until he found something appropriate. He noted that his breathing had calmed somewhat.
Penelope gazed up at him, eyes heavy.
No, he still wanted her with mindless lust. But it felt more normal, the wanting of a strong man for a sweet, beautiful woman.
He leaned down, scooped her into his arms, sat himself on the chair, and settled her into his lap. “Once upon a time,” he began. “There was a beautiful princess.”
Penelope snuggled into him and laid her head on his shoulder. She felt heavy, as though she’d been held up by strings that had been suddenly released. His firm shoulder through his lawn shirt supported her, his arms kept her from falling. Safe, that was it, she felt safe.
The strong muscles of his thighs pressed her backside, and the scent of him was heady. But the madness had receded a little, settling down into warm, dreaming wanting.
He’d stopped shaking, as well. When she’d nearly said the naughty word that had sprung unbidden to her lips, his eyes had darkened with crazed intensity, and she realized he could take from her whatever he wanted. She would not be able to stop him from doing anything he pleased.
Had she been afraid like a sensible woman? No. She’d wanted to be compromised, wanted his hard weight on top of her, wanted his hands and mouth all over her body.
He mastered himself. She watched his control return, an iron will that told her better than his words, his jewels, and his entourage ever could, that he was a ruler. His ancestors had held Nvengaria against the outside world for eight centuries, and she’d seen in him tonight the strength that could do such things.
This amazing man now held her, plain Penelope Trask, on his knee, while he told her a story.
“What did the princess look like?” she interrupted.
He chuckled. She liked his laugh—his true laugh, the silken, warm one. She studied the gap in his shirt, enjoying the play of shadowed muscle beneath.
“She had long golden hair and beautiful green eyes,” he purred, “And a body a man would die for.”
He kept calling her beautiful. He said it like he believed it, his eyes dark and warm.
“What happened to this princess?”
“She was locked in a tower, far from civilization. ’Twas a high tower, with no door and only one window. It was surrounded by a huge thicket in the middle of an impenetrable forest. The only person she ever saw was the hideous beast who guarded her.”
“Why was she in the tower?” Penelope asked, growing curious. “What had she done?”
“Nothing. Her parents locked her there for her protection, along with boxes filled with treasure. Because she was so beautiful and so rich, you see, they feared that every man in the kingdom would try to snatch her away. So, she grew to womanhood there with the hideous beast to guard her.”
“Until one day,” Penelope prompted.
“Hush,” he growled. “I am telling this story.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Highness.” She snuggled closer to him. “Please proceed.”
“Until one day, a very handsome man approached. He had a long rope, which he tossed to the tower window. The princess looked out and asked what he was doing. ‘Why, climbing the tower to rescue you,’ he answered. She was delighted, knowing she would leave the tower at last. While she watched him struggle the very long way up, she asked him how he’d gotten through the impenetrable forest. ‘Enchantment,’ he answered. She asked how he’d gotten through the terrible thicket alive. ‘Enchantment,’ he answered. She asked how he’d gotten past the hideous beast.”
“‘Enchantment,’” Penelope said with him.
He grinned. “Now, the princess worried that the beast had been hurt, because, although he was hideous, he’d always been kind to her. But she saw no blood on the handsome man’s clothes, and concluded the beast must have been put to sleep or some such thing.”
“Compassionate of her,” Penelope murmured.
“The princess was indeed compassionate. And beautiful. And wise. She watched the handsome man climb the tower, and then she helped pull him inside. He was handsome indeed, tall and striking.”
“Did he have black hair and blue eyes?”
“He was Nvengarian, so he must have. The princess was about to reward her rescuer with a kiss, a gift more precious than any jewel, when suddenly, he walked past her to the two huge boxes of treasure. He opened them and scooped out the coins and laughed. ‘I’m rich,’ said he.”
“Oh,” Penelope raised her head, indignant. “Then he only wanted the treasure? Not the princess? The nerve of him.”
“Yes, he was not a prince, but a clever thief, helped by a wicked sorcerer. The sorcerer had given him magics to get through the forest and the thicket and to enchant the hideous beast, in return for a share of the profit. The princess was so angry that she went up to the man, while he was bent over the chests, and kicked him in the backside.”
Penelope put her hand over her mouth, laughing. “Serves him right.”
“Indeed. He turned around and looked at the princess, and then realized how extraordinarily beautiful she was. He went to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her. Rather like this.”
Damien demonstrated, and Penelope met the kiss hungrily. The ferocious passion of a few minutes ago had gone, like a spell broken, but it still fired her.
His dark hair shadowed his face, and his eyes were still, the sophisticated Prince Damien again. She’d rather liked the glimpse of the other Damien, the one of raw emotion and intensity, the one who’d survived by his strength and his wits to make half the world eat out of his hand.
When the kiss ended, she asked, “Did the princess fall in love with him?”
“He
fell in love with her. He said, ‘If you help me get the treasure out, I will take you, too.’ Well, the princess had long wanted to leave the tower, so she told the thief she would help him. He tied the rope around her waist and lowered her to the ground. Then he tied each of the two chests of treasure to the rope and lowered them as well. At last, he climbed down himself.
“The princess was quite excited to find herself at last out of the tower. But, as I said, the princess was very wise. She noticed at once that the thief had brought no cart or horse to help carry away the treasure. He had left his horse at the edge of the forest, he said. They would have to drag the treasure chests back through.
“The princess had a much better idea. At her waist hung a horn of silver, which she could use to summon the hideous beast if need be. She put it to her lips, and blew.”
“Oh, dear,” Penelope said.
“Soon they heard the hideous beast crashing toward them through the thicket. He emerged, huge and tall, with two great, bloodshot eyes and a horn on his head. He carried an axe, almost as big as the princess herself. He roared, furious, because he’d been in an enchanted sleep and the thief had gotten past him.
“The thief, terrified, tried to make the princess run away. But the princess turned to face the beast, unafraid. ‘Beast,’ she said. ‘I have some heavy boxes. Can you carry them for me?’ The beast at once hung his axe on his belt and picked up the treasure boxes, one under each great arm.
“‘Beast,’ the princess said. ‘I want to see the wide world. Will you show it to me and protect me from harm?’ The beast nodded his great head. Happy, the princess took the beast’s arm and told him to lead on through the thicket.
“The thief said, growing worried, ‘What about me?’
“The princess gave him a dazzling smile. ‘I thank you, sir, for helping me escape the tower with all my treasure. The beast has been my dear friend for many a long year, and I believe we will be very happy together. Good-bye.’
“The thief watched with his mouth open, as the beautiful princess and all that treasure went off with the beast into the forest. He knew he’d never, ever be able to fight off the hideous beast and he had no more enchantments. He had lost.
“The princess walked away with the beast, her hand on his strong arm. Together they discovered the wonders of the wide world, and lived happily ever after.”
Penelope put her hand over her mouth, laughter burbling. “You made that up.”
“No, indeed.” His eyes sparkled. “My pledge to you, it is a Nvengarian fairy tale. I believe it is an admonishment to Nvengarians to not be so vain. Nvengarians are quite vain people.”
She idly drew her slippered foot up Damien’s calf. “I understand why. You are all so beautiful. Even your servants are strikingly handsome, like the two lads you have as footmen.”
He grunted. “Rufus and Miles, aye, they are a pair. They rub it in anyone’s faces that they were chosen to journey with their prince, not realizing it was a punishment.”
Her foot stopped. “Punishment?”
His eyes cooled, shutting himself from her. “I have already said too much.”
“Indeed, you have not. You’ve said entirely too little.”
He brushed his fingers across her face, but the heat had gone, his storytelling having diminished the fierce fire between them. “You know what you need to know. There is a prophecy that I must fulfill by Midsummer’s Day, to bring back with me the true Princess of Nvengaria. You are she. We will have our betrothal ritual here, and our wedding in Nvengaria. You should prepare for the journey, although any clothes and things you need will be provided for you as we go.”
She slid from his enchanting lap and landed on her feet. “Wait a moment, Your Arrogant Highness. I have not yet said I will marry you.”
His eyes held wariness, but also a determination that nearly knocked her over. “You will.”
“You are certain, are you?”
“Yes. You will come ’round.”
“Why?”
He stood up. He was too tall, too masculine. In his open shirt, with his silver ring, he looked like a wild Magyar someone had convinced to wear civilized clothes.
His mouth moved into a smile, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Because you are in love with me. The prophecy has made you so. You will come to me, and we will be joined.”
For a moment, she wanted to melt at his feet and agree with every word he said. But Penelope had never been a compliant female. Had she been, she’d have married Reuben White several years ago and even now be living in misery. Instead, she’d lifted her chin, looked the handsome dandy in the eye, and told him the engagement was off. The consequences had been awful, the gossip vicious, but she’d done it.
“Oh, we will, will we?” she asked, her voice haughty.
The corners of his mouth creased. “You will make a fine princess.”
He planted one hand on her waist, gave her a deep, breathtaking kiss, and strolled away to the panel in the wall.
She touched her fingers to her lips and willed her knees not to fail her. She’d not give him the satisfaction of falling to the floor and begging him to stay.
He swung the panel inward. A rectangle of cold darkness waited for him like a gaping mouth. She saw him flinch, then square his shoulders.
That tiny movement, the one acknowledgement that he had not always been a pillar of strength, undid her like his kisses could not. She snatched up her candle in its holder and ran to him.
“Here, take it.” She thrust the candlestick into his hand. He looked at her, the candle flame dancing warmth back into his eyes. “You should not suffer the dark because I am angry at you.”
His cool reserve fled, and the barbarian prince returned. He slid his hand behind her neck and scooped her to him.
His kiss was hot, deep, his lips devouring. She tasted his spice and the hard thrust of his tongue.
Candle wax spattered to the floor, and he broke the kiss, slanting her a smile of hot promise. Then he ducked through the opening, and was gone.
As soon as he closed the panel, she let her legs bend. She went flat on her back on the floor, her arms outstretched, and sighed happily. “What a man.”
Hers for the taking, she thought, and she shivered in excitement. That is, if she believed in magic.
Far, far away, across mountains and valleys, seas and rivers, in the deep gorge that was the country of Nvengaria, a man of about thirty-two sat, fingers steepled, and watched his mage peer into a sliver of crystal.
“Well?” Alexander asked, his deep voice tinged with impatience. “Did the spell work?”
Chapter Nine
The two men occupied a sumptuous room. Tapestries softened cold stone walls, and hangings of red and blue and gold adorned the doors. Alexander’s chair was old, from three centuries previous, square and carved, strewn with cushions and cloths.
Alexander himself wore the softest of silk shirts, skintight buff breeches, boots of supple leather, and a military-style coat of best superfine. A blue sash woven with stiff threads of pure gold, the only one of its kind in all of Nvengaria, slashed from his right shoulder to left waist. The sash belonged to the Grand Duke, the highest of the Council of Dukes.
Gold encircled Alexander’s fingers. On one ring, a ruby winked deep blood red. He wore another ruby stud in his ear, nearly hidden in his long dark hair.
The Grand Duke’s full name was Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien. Where Prince Damien invited people to not bother remembering all his names, no one forgot Alexander’s. He did not insist they remember, but people seemed to do so anyway.
Mostly people called Alexander Your Grace, that is, when they could gather the courage to speak to him at all.
Nedrak, the Grand Mage in the Council of Mages, found the man unnerving. Alexander would say nothing, but under his dark blue gaze, people found themselves stammering and sweating and wanting to tell him whatever he expected to hear.
Nedrak, alas, had to give him bad new
s.
He looked up from the scrying crystal to find those blue eyes on him, cold and intense. He swallowed. He tried to remember that he was as high born as Grand Duke Alexander, that he held a position almost as important as Alexander’s, that Alexander was not yet supreme ruler of Nvengaria.
Didn’t matter. The coil of panic would not go away. “The prince is strong, Your Grace,” he said. “As is the girl.”
“In other words, it did not work.”
“No, Your Grace. I believe the spell was weakened by distance.”
Alexander sat back, bringing his steepled fingers to his mouth. He did not believe in Nedrak’s magic nor in the spell Nedrak claimed to have cast to force Prince Damien and his little princess to break the prophecy. He did not really believe in the scrying crystal, either, although Nedrak did seem to know what went on far away.
“Prince Damien’s father nearly killed us all,” he said softly. “Remember?”
“Too well, Your Grace.” Nedrak nodded fervently, pleased he could agree with Alexander on something.
Alexander’s thoughts moved from the burbling mage to the havoc Damien’s demon of a father had wrought in Nvengaria. The former Imperial Prince had nearly broken the Council of Dukes with his idiotic schemes and had more or less ruled like a despot. He’d given away the gold on which Nvengaria had been founded to buy himself friends and pay tribute to the greedy Ottomans. Alexander and the Councils had fought hard to keep the Ottoman Empire from looking at them as a vassal state.
The result was that the stronger Russians, Prince Metternich and the Austrians, not to mention the Ottoman Empire, nearly rushed in and simply took what they wanted. Only luck and desperate diplomacy had kept them at bay.
Rumors had told of the Imperial Prince’s depravity in private, of the women he’d ravished and ruined. Alexander never paid much attention to those rumors; a man could be dissipated and still be a good ruler. The Imperial Prince, unfortunately, had not been a good ruler.
The Imperial Prince had not liked it when Alexander’s father, the previous Grand Duke, had disagreed with him. Alexander’s father had been arrested, stood against a wall, and shot by three marksmen. The Imperial Prince had forced Alexander to watch the execution. He then expected Alexander to take up the mantel of Grand Duke, but only as the Imperial Prince’s toady.