Penelope & Prince Charming (18 page)

“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 still 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.

He made a soft noise of pain, but did not stop.

“Damien?” she asked, a frantic question. “Why do I—”

He could not answer her. He thrust into her again, deeper, the next one faster and harder. It hurt and it did not hurt, and she did not know what to do.

She lifted her hips to meet his, braced by the pillow. She kissed his cheek, feeling the burn of his whiskers on her lips. The feel of that, so masculine and warm, tipped her over some edge she’d been teetering upon.

Another cry burst from her lips. A dark wave swamped her, one flickering with the edges of fire. Damien braced himself on the bed, his bound hand pushing hers into the blankets, and thrust and thrust into her.

He gave a shout that ended in a growl, and his entire body ground into hers. “Penelope,” he whispered. “Love
you. Love…” He trailed off into a string of Nvengarian as he kissed her hot face, his own face wet, his lips warm and heavy.

She was not sure how they wound down from where they had been, but gradually, his thrusts quieted, and the pressure on her hand eased. His kisses became lighter, slower, his caresses more gentle, though he was still inside her.

She breathed out in a long sigh, her body loosening, limbs sinking into the featherbed. She closed her eyes.

She suddenly remembered the baroness at the fete, tittering with her friends about Nvengarians in general. “They are quite depraved, my dear, really quite depraved.”

Penelope flushed guiltily and opened her eyes to look at Damien. If this was depravity, she liked it. Perhaps she was depraved, too. Perhaps because she had Nvengarian blood, however diluted.

He was smiling down at her, his hair tousled. “If ever I doubted the prophecy, I believe in it now. We fit together excellently well.”

“Yes, it feels—excellent.”

He was still pressed into her, erect and full. From what Katie Roper’s sisters had told her, that was not supposed to happen. They tittered about a man’s “limp bird” and a “cock that left its perch.”

She touched his cheek. “Are you all right?”

“I believe this is the best I have felt in my entire life.”

“But you are still rigid.”

He chuckled. “That is your fault.”

“Mine?”

“Mmm. For being the most beautiful and desirable woman I have ever seen.”

She gave a short laugh. “I cannot be.”

He looped a strand of her hair on the tip of his finger. “Why not?

She had no answer except that she’d always thought of herself as plain Penelope. “You make me feel beautiful.”

“You
are
beautiful.”

Her heart ached, and she did not understand why. “When the prophecy is fulfilled, will we still be in love?”

He kissed her, his smile wicked. “I cannot imagine feeling any other way about you.”

“Nor I, you.”

“In that case, I suggest we get as much loving as possible, to take advantage of our madness.”

He tried to look so innocent and failed so miserably that Penelope burst out laughing. “You are trying to charm me again.”

“Does it work?” His smile turned sly, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “What about this?” He said a few phrases in Nvengarian that she did not know.

She touched his hair. “I have a feeling I should not ask Sasha what those things mean.”

“Ah, you misunderstand him. He would probably tell you most eagerly, happy that I am wooing you.”

Her face heated. “Will you tell me?”

“Some of the phrases sound much cruder in English.”

“I feel I should know what sweetnesses you are whispering into my ear.”

“Not all of it is ‘sweet,’ as you say. Some of it you are not ready for.”

“Tell me what I
am
ready for.”

He considered, his blue eyes twinkling. “I am not certain what you are ready for. You are resilient, but I would like you to stay here with me for the rest of the afternoon and not scream and run away.”

“You are making me crawl with curiosity. Tell me one thing at least.”

His mouth twitched. “You are a brave woman. Very well, let me choose the most innocuous.” The smile deep
ened. “I have it. There are certain places on your body that I would like to put my tongue.” He leaned down and licked the curve of her ear. “This is but one of the places.”

Her skin prickled. “You have already put it somewhere quite wicked.”

“Yes, and I enjoyed tasting you again. I would like to tease your breasts with it. And lick your toes, which I have already done.”

She blushed remembering the curling warmth inside her when he took her toes into his mouth. “And my fingers,” she said. “And kissed me.”

“And I would like to lick between the cleave of your breasts. And the cleave of your buttocks.”

She stared, startled. “Goodness, why?”

His eyes darkened, and he suddenly withdrew from her, leaving her empty. “Turn over onto your front, and I will demonstrate why.”

She hesitated. He watched her, likely deciding whether she was brave enough. She imagined his tongue tickling the base of her spine, and suddenly she realized very much indeed why she’d like it.

The loops of the silk rope had loosened; he hadn’t tied them. She slipped her hand out of the bond and rolled over onto her stomach.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. He knelt on the bed, his erection standing up from his body, curls of thick black hair at the base, the shaft slick and wet. His entire body was sculpted muscle and flesh, brown from the sun. All bits of him were bronzed, as though he let the sun kiss his entire naked body.

The thought made her gulp. Picturing Damien naked in the sun was not the fantasy of an innocent young lady. Although, she supposed she was no longer an innocent young lady.

When Damien touched his tongue to the hollow be
tween her buttocks and spine, she gasped. The spark was even better than she’d imagined it would be.

He laid a soothing hand on her back. “Lie still.”

His tongue slid further down, right between the cheeks of her backside. She dug her fingers into the coverlet, a moan escaping her lips.

He lifted his mouth. “I have barely done a thing, love.”

Truly? She squeezed her eyes shut and held on tighter, as he bent his head again.

This time he licked all the way down, flicking his tongue over her backside, dipping between the cheeks, licking one side, then the other. Little cries escaped her, which she muffled in the bedclothes. She’d never felt anything like it, never imagined anything like it.

And then his fingers gently drew her apart, and his teasing tongue found her small hole.

She gave a little scream and crawled away from him, coming to rest on her hands and knees on the pillows, facing him. “Why did you do that?” she panted.

He sat back on his heels, his arousal not abating one bit. “If you do not like it, I will not do so again.” His eyes were a mystery. “But you must tell me truthfully that you did not like it.”

She opened her mouth to say so, then she closed it. A strange, hot sensation had covered her body. “I am not certain.” She hesitated. “Am I depraved?”

“Depraved?” He laughed. “Why should you think you are?”

She drew a ragged breath. “Because I might have liked it.”

Damien covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook. “I assure you, Penelope, that for a Nvengarian, I am almost tame.”

“What about for an Englishman?”

“That I do not know. I have met Englishmen whose
tastes would make the most healthy Nvengarian cringe, and I have met Englishmen who do not seem to know or care what a woman is for. I suppose I am somewhere in between.”

“I think that I am not supposed to be discussing this with my husband. My betrothed, I mean.”

His smile vanished. “With whom did you propose to discuss it?”

“No one, of course.”

He looked perplexed. “Why should I not talk about bed things with the woman I love?” He reached for her, closed his hand around her wrist, and drew her toward him. “I want to know everything you like and everything you do not. I want to touch every place that makes you scream, I want you to tell me to put my tongue where you want it and where I want it, and I want to teach you to do the same to me.” He cupped her cheek. “I want to give you as much pleasure as a man can give a woman, and I need you to guide me, so it will be the best I can make it.”

Her heartbeat speeded. If this was depravity, she rather liked it. She might be ashamed of herself later, but for now, she was quite enjoying it.

“Lie down,” he said.

She took his hand and brushed a kiss to his palm before she obeyed. “What are you going to do now?”

“Wash you,” he said unexpectedly. “You bled a little.”

Surprised, she raised her head and looked down at herself. She remembered a fearful debutant whispering to her about the knifelike pain a woman must endure when her husband broke her maidenhead, and the gush of blood that would follow.

Penelope had felt a full ache, rather than bright sharpness, and she saw only a few smudges of already dried blood on her thighs.

He took up the cloth she had used to dab his wounds, rinsed it in the basin, then brought it back to the bed. It
dripped a bit on the coverlet, leaving round, dark spots that thinned as they spread.

Gently, Damien smoothed the cloth over the inside of her thigh, wiping away the stain that meant she was no longer an innocent.

So many debutants fretted over the transition between maidenhood and womanhood, fearing it would hurt, knowing people would
know
, wondering how profound that night would be that changed them.

Penelope had missed the change; she had been so caught up in holding Damien and kissing him and feeling him fill her. She supposed that was the change—from blushing girl to a woman unashamedly embracing the man she loved. This was a change now, as well, she lying on her back with her legs spread, while he knelt, naked, next to her, and bathed her with the cloth.

It felt the most natural thing in the world to lie here with him, neither of them worrying about their state of undress and what each looked like to the other. A happiness seeped into her bones and for some reason made her want to wriggle her toes.

“I love you, Damien,” she said softly.

He smiled down at her, lashes sweeping to hide his eyes, but she saw the flicker of triumph in them. “Good.”

He drew the cloth over her thighs again, although she reasoned she must be clean. The cloth left a dampness behind that air touched and made cool.

“I cannot tell you it will be easy,” he said. “I wish that I could.”

“Because Grand Duke Alexander is trying to kill you?”

“More than that.” His look turned serious. “My father nearly destroyed Nvengaria. It needs something to bring it back to its feet, something to believe in. They want the princess even more than they want the Imperial Prince. That is why they cheered me as I rode from the gates, because I would bring you back with me.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes, liking the feel of the cloth moving in little circles on her skin. “What do they want me to do?”

“I do not believe they wish you to
do
anything. They simply want you to
be
.”

“That does not sound very difficult.”

“It will be. They will want to love you, body and soul. They already do love you, the princess who will restore Nvengaria.”

“Oh.” Trepidation fluttered through her heart. “What if they are disappointed?” She opened her eyes. “Your people are rather volatile, Damien. What if they decide not to accept me?”

She imagined herself being chased through the gates of a mountain town, people driving her forth with pitchforks and swords.

He chuckled, as though reading her thoughts. “You have seen how Sasha and my entourage view you. They have already decided you are the perfect princess and will do anything for you. Even Petri, the most skeptical of men, has embraced you, so to speak. He is enormously pleased that we will marry.”

Penelope knew this responsibility he was thrusting upon her should worry her. She was not a princess; she was plain Penelope Trask, twice a jilt with no prospects, with no idea how to be an important woman, wife to a prince. But somehow, in the afterglow of her first joining with a man, the danger and difficulty seemed far away and unreal.

Perhaps it was the prophecy, willing her not to resist it. She had come to believe in this arcane magic after feeling herself change. A young miss such as herself should have swooned when Damien carried her off into the meadow and began to kiss her; she should have fought him hard, not succumbed. But at the time, there hadn’t seemed to be a choice. It hadn’t seemed wrong to let him kiss her and whisper to her what he wanted to do.

Likewise, it did not feel wrong to roll over and caress his
strong thigh and smile when he eased his hand through her hair. They were not married—at least, not by English standards—and yet she felt no shame lying here with him.

“Will you and Sasha tell me what to do when we get there?” She yawned. Strangely, the more she tried to focus on the daunting task, the more lethargic she became.

“We will not let you fall, Penelope.”

She smiled, drowsing, imagining him holding her up in his powerful hands. Perhaps it would be all right. Perhaps the people of Nvengaria would ride out to meet her, banners waving, children shouting, men and women cheering and waving. They would be like Damien’s Nvengarians, wild and strong, but fiercely loyal.

“Tell me a story,” she said sleepily. She kissed his knee, inhaling his masculine scent. “About Nvengaria.”

“Another fairy tale?” he murmured.

“Yes. You said you’d tell them to me in bed, ’member?”

“So I did.” He set the cloth aside and laid down beside her. His large body, warm and long at her side, made her feel comforted and protected. “You rest, and I’ll tell you about the princess and the logosh.”

She shivered, but she no longer felt frightened of the logosh. “Does it have a happy ending?”

“It does.”

“Tell it to me, then.” She squirmed around until she could kiss his lips, then she snuggled down into the crook of his arm.

He smoothed his hand down her body. “Once upon a time,” he murmured, “there was a beautiful princess.”

And Penelope fell asleep.

Hours later, Damien jumped awake.

The room was still, the afternoon air hot. It was also silent. He heard no sound from the house, no sound from outside the windows. He wondered if the party goers, ex
hausted from the hunt and the heat, had returned to the house to sleep.

He’d smiled when Penelope had drifted off as he’d begun the story. He’d kissed her closed eyes, then lain down to wait for her to wake up.

He must have fallen asleep as well, tired by his frenzied lovemaking. Only it had not been very frenzied. Perhaps, he thought, his eyelids drooping again, he’d simply worn himself out from all the anticipation.

Being inside Penelope had been as fine as he’d expected. He smiled, remembering the brief pain of her nails, the heat of her frantic breath, how beautiful her face looked, twisted in passion, and the sweet cries of desire that she could not control.

His erection grew even as he started back to sleep. Later, he’d turn her gently onto her back and awaken her by sliding softly into her. Later…

He jerked awake again. Nothing had changed. Penelope slept on beside him, her naked body limp, her head pillowed on her bent arm.

His throat was parched. It was far too hot in the room; he had to open the window. Petri would not like it, but Petri was in the cool hall, not the stifling bedroom. Besides, Petri had made certain that Damien’s bedchamber windows had a sheer drop to the back of the house, no overhanging trees or convenient ivy to climb.

A high blank wall would make no difference to a logosh, but Rufus and Miles must have caught the thing by now and sliced it to bits.

Damien unlatched and pushed open the casement, hinges creaking in the silence. He closed his eyes as a refreshing breeze touched his face, cool laced with damp. They might get rain this evening. It rained much in this country.

The silence outside matched the silence within. No ser
vant plucked vegetables from the gardens for supper, no guests strolled the hedged walks. No aristocrats rode in the park, no grooms exercised horses in their master’s stead. In short, no Englishmen, no Nvengarians, no one at all.

Damien quietly pulled trousers over his bare backside and exited the room. The hall was blissfully cool, and in a window seat near the end, Petri slept, his head thrown back, a soft snore coming from his throat.

Damien watched him in disquiet. Petri had never fallen asleep at his post in his life, no matter how tired he was.

“Petri.” He shook the man’s shoulder.

Petri’s head lolled, but he did not awaken. Damien straightened up, grim. He wondered if the wine at the betrothal ceremony had been tampered with, the thick, bloodred wine that Sasha had carried so lovingly all the way to England. But in that case, why was Damien, who’d drunk far more of it than Petri, awake?

He’d heard of enchanted sleeps—in tales. But why not? A logosh had turned up and Damien was following a prophecy he did not understand. Why not an enchanted sleep as well?

He returned to the bedroom. Penelope slept on, her bare body relaxed and enticing. He wanted nothing more than to climb on the bed with her, drape himself over her, and drift blissfully to sleep himself.

He fought the urge. He pulled a fold of the rumpled coverlet over Penelope, who never moved, and leaned down and kissed her cheek. Then he rummaged in a drawer until he found a long, finely honed Nvengarian knife. Before he left the room, he closed the window again. A shame, because the weather had cooled, a few white clouds casting shadows over the heated afternoon. But he wanted no logosh or any other magical horror climbing in through the window while he was gone.

Petri snored in the hall. Damien left him there and as
cended the stairs to the attic. The first servant’s room he looked into held a mob-capped maid, fallen backward on her bed fully dressed, one foot dangling. She must have felt the lethargy, retired to her room, and was overcome with sleep before she could even lie down properly.

In another bedchamber, he found Rufus and Miles, or at least, he assumed it was his footmen in the tangle of at least eight bare legs, four ending in the dainty plump feet of English maids. He rolled his eyes and closed the door.

He left the servants’ quarters and journeyed downstairs. In the still house, he found sleeping guests and servants everywhere. The butler, Mathers, sprawled on a padded bench under the bust of Damien his footmen had erected, his hands resting on his ample belly.

He found Michael Tavistock in the sitting room with Lady Tavistock’s head on his shoulder. Meagan was curled in a chair nearby, and Egan McDonald lay on the hearthrug, his kilt hiked above his brawny knees. He had a fine Highland snore.

“Damnation,” Damien muttered, more to keep himself awake than for need of expression.

If the sleep were enchanted, why? Why would a mage go to the trouble of sending an entire household to sleep?

To kill Damien and Penelope in peace, of course.

Then where was the assassin, and why had he not struck? A trickle of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. He softly left the ground-floor rooms, making for the stairs again.

Another question, who was the mage? No sorcerer was powerful enough to cast a spell all the way from Nvengaria, and he knew of no other sorcerers than Nvengarians. Oh, there were tricksters and women in villages and stargazers across Europe who called themselves sorcerers and witches, but in truth, they were not.

The thought that someone in his entourage was betray
ing him nauseated him. He’d been so careful, vetting the men and servants who’d volunteered to take this journey with him. He and Petri and Sasha had scrutinized every one of them, but he supposed Alexander would send only a very clever man.

And if it were Sasha…

No, he could not quite believe that. Sasha had been fiercely loyal since the day Damien had unlocked and opened the cell door of Sasha’s prison with his own hand. Sasha, filthy and stinking and looking barely human, had heard Damien’s voice and crawled to him, weeping. He’d clung to Damien’s boot and said brokenly that he’d never given up faith that Damien would come for him. The guards had tried to pull Sasha away, but Damien had lifted the man, so emaciated he weighed next to nothing, and carried him out of the dungeon himself.

His old tutor was fanatically devoted to Damien. Sasha would have tried to stop any spell, not cast it himself.

Damien gained the upper hall again, where Petri slept on. As he reached to shake his valet again, he sensed another presence that he hadn’t noticed before, a menace that tugged at his attention.

Slowly, he turned his gaze along the length of the hall, and then upward.

The logosh crouched on the wall in a shadowed corner. It was utterly still, its presence merely a darker blotch on the dark wall covering. Damien gripped his knife and walked toward it, making his footfalls noiseless.

The logosh never moved. It must have seen him coming; perhaps, it was readying itself to spring when Damien was in the choicest spot. Well, it would spring onto Damien’s knife in that case. His pulse raced, his blood up, ready for a fight.

But the logosh remained unnaturally still. It could not
be dead, because surely it would lose its grip on the wall and fall. But what did Damien know about logosh? The fact that one lived at all was astonishing.

He stopped directly beneath it. He noticed then that its eyes were closed, and its ribs moved in and out in a deep, even rhythm.

Good God, the thing was asleep.

Damien smiled to himself without letting down his guard. Whoever had cast an enchantment over the house had caught the logosh in it, too. Perhaps the spell-caster was there, too, sound asleep.

These obstacles were beginning to annoy him. Time to clear them out.

“Starting with you, my friend,” he murmured. He took another step and thrust his knife up into the sleeping logosh’s ribs.

That was his intention, anyway. At the last moment, the logosh opened its wide, luminous eyes, shrieked, and sprang out of the way. The knife bit into its flesh, but not enough to kill it.

The logosh charged for the window. Damien leaped onto the sill, knife ready. Damned if he was letting it get away again, to heal itself and attack another time.

The logosh leapt at him, but its wound made it clumsy. Damien dragged the knife down its side, drawing black blood. The logosh jumped away, and Damien sprang from the windowsill and followed it. He struck again, but missed this time, the agile logosh managing to slither away.

Suddenly, he found himself slammed back into the wall, the logosh landing on his chest, its thin hand closing around Damien’s throat. His head hit the wall and his breath deserted him.

He still had his knife, though. He brought it up and around to the logosh’s body.

A door crashed open. “Damien!” Penelope cried, horrified.

The logosh glanced her way and froze. Damien used the distraction to jam his knife straight into the logosh’s side.

The creature screamed. It half fell, half leapt from Damien, turned in a dizzy circle and crashed into the wall. Penelope, wrapped in the coverlet, scurried forward on bare feet, her eyes wide.

Damien held up his hand, arresting her movement. The logosh turned its gaze to her again, and he swore that its expression was pleading.

“Damn it, sir.” Petri was awake and off the bench. He took in the wounded logosh, Damien panting and holding a blood-streaked knife, and Penelope wrapped in the coverlet. “I never meant—”

“Never mind, Petri. Help me finish it off.”

He took a step toward the logosh. Suddenly the air around it shimmered, and then the logosh was gone, to be replaced by a small, very dirty boy, bleeding with knife cuts.

He heard Penelope gasp. The child could have been no more than ten, perhaps eleven, and he looked for all the world like any other Nvengarian boy Damien ever seen, the exception being that most Nvengarian children couldn’t turn themselves into demons.

The boy pulled his arms and legs in on himself, hiding his nakedness, and began to cry, the small, terrified sobs of a child.