Penelope & Prince Charming (3 page)

They shared a look.

As one, they turned back to the waiting man.

“Very well,” Penelope answered, voice shaking. “I will ride with you.”

“Excellent,” he said again. When he said the word in that voice, she wanted to believe it.

She handed Meagan her basket, closed her fingers around his outstretched hand, and lifted her foot to rest on his boot. He pulled her upward, his strength taking all the strain. He settled her easily before him, and as in her fantasy, closed his arms around her.

“We shall see you there,” the man called down to Meagan.

Meagan settled Penelope’s basket, smiled, and waved good-bye, as the man turned the horse and started up the road for Ashborn Manor.

Treacherous girl.

“How far is it?” he asked in Penelope’s ear.

His breath was warm. He smelled of the outdoors and the tang of ale and a sharp, male scent. Strong arms encircled her, holding her steady at the same time he made her heart beat extra fast. She was also very aware that her buttocks and hips pressed firmly into the spread of his thighs.

“Half a mile by road,” she stammered.

“Closer over the fields?”

“Um, yes.”

“Excellent.”

He liked the word. He spurred his horse into a canter and plunged off the road. The horse soared under them, then landed hard, but the man caught her before she could slide away.

“Do not worry,” he said. “I will never let you go.”

Her heart thrilled, though she knew he must not mean the words the way she wanted him to. His command of
English was not faultless; doubtless he only meant that he would hold her safely.

“I do not even know who you are,” she said over the wind and thumping hoofbeats.

“Call me Damien,” he said. “It is easier.”

Easier than what?
she wanted to ask, but she had to save her breath for the ride. She held double handfuls of the horse’s silken mane, and Damien hung on to her.

She’d never been this close to a man before. Even dancing the waltz with Reuben had not brought her into this much contact with another man’s body. Damien’s broad chest was hard against her back, and he held the reins low, almost in her lap, gloved hands steady. The gloves were finely made, as she’d suspected, probably in Bond Street in London. They stretched over his fingers like a second skin, outlining the sinewy strength of them.

His skin was darker than an Englishman’s, but tiny white patches creased the corners of his eyes, and fine lines brushed his skin there. He had a strong jaw and a square chin dusted with bristles, as though he’d not been able to shave that morning. His smile was warm, but he looked as though he could be fierce, and had been, when necessary.

He caught her scrutiny and his smile widened. “What is your name?”

For one awful moment, she could not remember.

“Penelope,” she blurted.

“Penelope.” He repeated it as though he liked the taste in his mouth. He lingered over each warm syllable. “
Penelope.
Like Odysseus’s wife.”

“Yes. Only I cannot weave.”

He laughed. His eyes crinkled when he did, and her blood warmed to furnace temperatures.

“I should not have told you that,” she said.

“That you cannot weave? Why should this trouble me?”

“I mean my name. We have not been introduced. You should not even know my Christian name, let alone speak it.”

He chuckled, his chest rumbling. “But I am carrying you off. Why can I not speak your name?”

“Are you carrying me off?” she asked.

“Would you like me to? Where would you like to go, Penelope?”

“I thought you wanted to go to Ashborn Manor.”

“I do. But my business there is dull. Perhaps I would like one more afternoon of happiness before I must attend to this business.” He slowed the horse to a walk. They were far from the road, in a meadow of tall grass shielded by trees. “Would you like to make me happy, Penelope?”

Her heart thumped. “Are you flirting with me, sir?”

“No.” His smile disappeared, and he looked down at her with darkened eyes. “I am—how do you say?—propositioning you.”

Her cheeks flamed. He should not say that—not to her, not to the unmarried daughter of a baronet to whom he’d not been introduced. She must stop him, explain to him that perhaps where he came from such things were done, but not in England.

But her skin prickled with sudden and forbidden delight, and dark places inside stirred to life. A gentleman did not simply ride to Penelope Trask and say those words in a silken voice, with promise in his eyes.

She remembered Magnus, her second betrothed, and his drunken slurs that he wanted to grope her—she was going to be his wife after all,
what ails you, gel?

This was not quite the same. This man was not drunk. His eyes were steady, his dark blue gaze holding something from her, she could not tell what. He smiled, but he was watchful.

“I think you are not familiar with English ways, sir,” she managed.

“I have been to England before.”

He halted the horse. They rested in the silence of the meadow, the quiet broken only by the drone of bees, and birds calling to one another in the sleepy heat.

“Penelope,” he said softly. “Since I have left my home, I have not seen anyone like you.” He touched his breastbone. “You have given me a pain, here.”

She felt as though a fog were coming over her mind, as though he had cast a spell, like the magicians in her stories. “How could I? I am nothing remarkable.”

“You are wrong.” His breath touched her cheek. “All my life, Penelope, I have existed inside a fairy tale. I have lived an empty life and done empty things. Now, everything is real, and I must face it.”

His eyes were not completely blue, as she’d thought, but flecked with black. They darkened further as he spoke, pressing back the flash of bleakness she had glimpsed before.

“Let me have one more page of the fairy tale, Penelope,” he said. “Before I must close the book.”

She could not imagine what he meant. She did know that if the gossipy ladies of the village learned that she’d come back here all alone with a handsome stranger, she’d be ruined.

A very naughty part of her, which had never spoken before, whispered,
Then why not enjoy it?

Was she mad? He
must
have cast a spell on her. She thought of the villagers, dancing in a line down the high street. He must have done that, as well.

“What did you do to them?”

He looked momentarily puzzled. “Who?”

“The villagers.”

“Ah.” His smile returned. “I bought them ale. I made many friends.”

Now for some reason, she wanted to laugh. “You must have.” She looked at him in exasperation. “Really, who
are
you?”

“Just Damien. For now.”

“Who will you be later?”

“I do not know.” He looked off into the distance. “I do not know, Penelope. Someone you will not like, perhaps.”

She gave a weak laugh. “I have known you ten minutes, and already you are the most baffling man of my entire acquaintance.”

His gaze returned to her, a sharp focus like a wolf on a rabbit. “And you are the most beautiful woman of mine.”

She so wanted the words to be true. Everything within herself wanted to be beautiful for this man, though deep inside, she knew she was plain Penelope, with wheatcolored hair and green eyes and a figure not willowy enough for London standards. This man likely had the pick of beauties wherever he went. He had to be flummoxing her.

“I cannot possibly be,” she said.

“I am afraid you are. And I believe I have fallen in love with you.”

“In ten minutes?” she asked, amazed.

“I think it would make no difference were it ten minutes, ten hours, or ten days. I am in love with you. Which makes what I must do very difficult.”

“I think,” Penelope said, “that you are completely mad.”

“As do I.”

He gently untied the ribbons of her small bonnet and pushed it from her head. She, the ninny, sat there and let him.

He brushed his gloved fingers over her hair. “It is like gold in the sunlight.”

His touch was warm and gentle and started a shaking deep within her.

“I have read stories,” he said, “in which a magician makes time stand still.”

So had Penelope. She’d transcribed one such story in her book of fairy tales.

“Have you ever wished you could do so?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

He smiled, as though surprised she agreed. “I wish I could stop time now. I would stay here in this place forever, in the moment I fell in love with you.”

“Too much sun,” she murmured.

He looked perplexed. “What do you say?”

“Too much sun. It is a warm day. Your brains are addled.”

He stared at her a minute, then burst out laughing. The horse, startled by the noise, danced sideways.

He calmed it with a touch. He swung from the saddle, then lifted Penelope down with him.

She grabbed her bonnet and jammed it back on her head. He removed it again, smiling as he did so. She reached for it, but he pulled it away, then tucked it into a bag strapped to the saddle.

She stared, baffled. “Now
my
brains will be addled.”

“Will you kiss me, Penelope?”

His hands went to her waist. He stood over her, tall and strong, his hands warm through her cotton frock.

This could not be real. She’d landed in the pages of one of her own fairy tales. But no, such things did not happen in Little Marching. He’d kiss her, and she’d be labeled as fast, and people would say, “Poor, foolish Penelope, she let flattery go to her head. You see, my dears, why you should never trust a man?”

He lowered his eyes, black lashes hiding them. “I beg you.”

She placed her hands on his arms. She meant to push him away, but she could only rest them there, feeling his strength. “I do not think—”

He touched his forehead to hers. “Please,” he whispered. “Please kiss me, Penelope.”

Without waiting for answer, he touched his lips to the side of her mouth, just barely, then drew back.

Warmth gathered at the base of her spine. She closed her hands over his arms, holding the rock-solid strength of them.

He touched kisses to her cheek, his lips smooth like warm satin, then moved to the curve of her neck, nuzzling the pulse points there. She let her head drop back, and he gently licked the hollow of her throat.

She closed her eyes. The join of her thighs felt hot and wet and strange. “Damien?” she whispered.

“I would like to see you bare.” He slid his hands from her waist to cup just under her bosom. “I would like to see you in the sunshine, with your hair down, and your gown open.”

Fire raced through every nerve. She was mad, she must be. And for this moment, strangely, she did not care.

“My brains
are
addled,” she breathed.

“Will you do this for me, Penelope?”

His voice was dark, his body so warm against hers. His arousal touched her softly through his tight breeches; he made no pretense of hiding his desire.

No, this was nothing like Magnus. Damien smelled good; he was clean and strong.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Let me see you. Let me have that one little thing. Please.”

His smiles had deserted him. His face was drawn, almost as though he were in pain. He asked it because he needed to.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

He slid his palm over her breast, driving more fire through her. “Please, Penelope.”

Tears stung her eyes. She shook her head.

He wiped the moisture from her eyelashes with his gloved finger, the leather cool and soft. “Do not cry.”

Her decision should be so easy. She should either be frightened of him, or she should strike him and declare him not a gentleman and walk back to the road in a huff. But for some reason, it felt right to stand with him, to let him softly touch her face.

She reached up and rested her fingers on his cheek, and he turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm.

Time
had
stopped. It froze into this moment when she looked at him and thought that maybe, just maybe, fairy tales could come true.

He kissed her brow, smoothed her eyelids with his lips. He kissed her mouth, coaxing it open, and to her shock, dipped his tongue inside. She tasted the bite of ale, and hot spice.

He tugged her lower lip between his teeth and gently sucked. Her knees would have buckled, but he slid his arm across her back and held her steady.

He drew away, his face an inch from hers. “Why did I meet you today? If I had waited a little longer in the tavern, we would not have passed. This is—”

He threaded his fingers through her hair, stroked his thumb over her temple. His eyes were downcast, brows drawn.

“Madness,” he finished.

Madness, yes. It had to be. She was mad, and he was. Maybe the horse, who’d moved away to crop grass, was mad, too.

“Have you stopped time?” she asked him.

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

She put her hands on his shoulders. His body was warm and hummed with strength.

“I will for you, if you want,” he promised.

He kissed her again, his tongue sliding across her lips. He leaned and kissed her throat, and tugged at the top hook of her bodice with his teeth.

She tried to say “Damien,” but nothing came out. Her throat was parched, and she could not swallow. She felt white heat in the depth of her belly, and her female juices wetting her legs.

She wanted to pull off her bodice and lie down for him, as he asked her to, while he sank to the ground beside her and covered her breast with his mouth. He’d suckle her, teeth scraping her aureole, while she’d rise to his touch.

She’d never, ever had such naughty thoughts in her life. She’d never known what fun they were. She smiled, and he caught the smile on his own lips.

Let this moment go on forever,
she thought. No regrets, no remorse. Just this feeling of hot happiness in the middle of Holden’s meadow, in the arms of a man called Damien.

She felt as though she belonged in his arms. Had always belonged, and would always. She wet her lips. “I like madness.”

“Good.” He pulled her close and kissed her again, lips against lips, the moisture of hers letting his slide easily across her mouth.

She was falling, down into the grass, where her vision would come true. He’d open her bodice and let his kisses fall on her bare flesh. She would not mind, no, not a bit. She’d thread her fingers under his long dark hair, and let him have anything he wanted…

“Your Highness!”

The cry echoed from one end of the meadow to the other.

“Damn,” Damien said without moving. “Damn it all.”

Time started again. The horse lifted his head, turning curiously to watch a small, dark-haired man lope toward them from the trees.