Penelope & Prince Charming (10 page)

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 beauti
ful. 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?”

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 for
got 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 news.

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.

Alexander, though seething with the need for revenge, understood the folly of acting too openly against the Imperial Prince. So outwardly he’d stepped into his father’s place as Grand Duke; inwardly he’d schemed and bided his time.

And now that monster’s son, Damien, the libertine prince, beloved of monarchs across Europe, was ruler of Nvengaria.

Alexander had tried to stop the Council of Dukes from sending for Damien at the old prince’s death. Nvengaria could do much better without the son of the idiot who’d ruined them, he’d argued. The Council could rule in the Imperial Prince’s name while Damien continued enter
taining countesses and fencing and being the life of royal parties.

They didn’t need him.

But Misk, keeper of the Imperial ring, like all Nvengarians, liked tradition. The man was enslaved to tradition. So was the Council of Dukes.

Too much damned tradition in this country.

Misk had slipped out in the middle of the night, against orders, found Damien, and brought him home.

Alexander had looked into the eyes of the Imperial Prince’s son and seen the same ruthlessness, the same uncontrolled will that had characterized the father. Alexander had decided then and there that he would not let Nvengaria fall a second time, and stirred the Council of Dukes and the Council of Mages to oppose Damien.

Damien had the love of the people—stupid people who saw only the pageantry of their prince—but Alexander controlled the army. And the treasury. And the Councils. Damien had popularity and tradition; Alexander had power and money.

Alexander knew he could save Nvengaria if Damien were made a puppet prince, a figurehead. Alexander would rule. Damien could ride his horse in parades and bow and be loved—and do exactly what Alexander told him to.

Damien, unfortunately, was as pigheaded as his father. He’d met Alexander’s stare when he understood the scheme, and flatly refused.

When Damien understood that Alexander had the military behind him and could not be touched, he had backed off, and they’d come to an uneasy truce, but Alexander knew they’d soon fight to the death.

When the prophecy business had come up, when Nedrak announced that all the signs were right, Alexander felt fortune turn in his direction. The Nvengarian people loved prophecy and destiny and magic. They were all for
Damien going on a quest to find and restore the long-lost princess.

Damien hadn’t believed the prophecy any more than Alexander had, but he knew the power of his people. If he’d refused, they’d have rioted. Nvengarians were not calm, rational people; they loved emotion and liked to bury themselves in it. Both Damien and Alexander knew that Damien had no choice but to go.

The prophecy said that Damien would return the princess by Midsummer’s Day or die in the attempt. The Nvengarians liked that. Succeed or die. It touched their romantic souls.

Alexander did not trust that Nedrak’s magic spells would force Damien to break the prophecy and thus sacrifice himself, but he did trust his hand-picked assassins.

Damien might succeed. But it was far more likely he’d die in the attempt.

Alexander smiled.

Nedrak nervously wet his lips. “What is it, Your Grace?”

“Nothing.” Alexander rose, firelight catching in the bloodred jewel on his finger. “You may go if you like. I am finished here.” He drew in a breath, preparing himself for what would come next.

“Are you?” Nedrak looked surprised. Duke Alexander rarely stopped working until well into the small hours of the morning.

“For now. I told my wife I would visit her tonight.”

“Ah.” Nedrak caught Alexander’s cold eye and halted his sympathetic nod. “Please give Her Grace my very best wishes for her health.”

“She is dying. It will do no good.” Alexander pulled a watch from his pocket, checked it, then tucked it away as he walked to the door. “But I will tell her.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Nedrak said, and then decided it would be wise to close his mouth and say nothing more.

Alexander gave him a nod and quietly departed the room.

Nedrak waited until Alexander’s footfalls had faded in the distance, then he sank into his chair, fanning his lined face in relief.

“I admire that man,” he confided to his scrying crystal. “As I admired his father. A smart, capable man is the Grand Duke.” He blew out his breath. “But he scares the
hell
out of me.”

“The Prince Regent, here!” Lady Trask gasped, hands at her cheeks.

She’d known for two days the Prince Regent was coming, and yet Lady Trask found every opportunity to throw her hands in the air and cry that he’d never find her home acceptable and they’d never be ready in time.

Alongside her mother, Penelope worked through the chaos in a slight daze. She had not seen much of Damien since the night he’d come to her room, and he’d taken care not to be alone with her.

At first, Penelope thought him wise, because she’d nearly flung off her night rail and begged him to lie on top of her on the floor of her chamber. But as the hours, then the days, passed, she began craving him with mindless intensity.

She thought of the feeling of his hands on her breasts, his fingers manipulating her with skill. She relived the sensation over and over in her dreams and in her waking hours.

A man had touched her body and called her beautiful.

One kiss could not hurt, she’d think. Or one touch of his hand. Even a moment snatched with him so their gazes could meet and they could speak.

But Damien wrapped himself in preparations for the coming fête, and spent his time with Sasha or his valet,
Petri. He went to the village often, taking one or more of his huge footmen with him.

The footmen came home singing; Damien was always quiet and watchful.

Michael had decided to stay after all. He told Penelope he would not leave her and her mother until things were settled. He’d started to believe Damien’s story, but was still wary.

“Damien is a personable fellow,” he said to Penelope. “And if the Prince of Wales vouches for him, I shall believe him. But your mother grows too excited at the prospect of royalty near at hand.”

“Please understand,” Penelope appealed to him. “She adored being a baronet’s wife and going to all the best balls and parties in London. She felt it keenly when all the income went to my cousin, and we could no longer live in Town.”

“Penelope.” Michael put his hand on her shoulder, his kind eyes still. “I know. But perhaps your mother cannot forgive me not giving her what her husband did.”

“She loves you very much. Please give her a chance.”

Michael promised, but evasively. Penelope worried—amid her worries of everything else. Her mother sometimes treated Michael poorly, but if he went, he would truly break her heart. Penelope could hardly run off with Damien and leave her all alone, in that case.

Then Damien would ride away, searching for another princess.

The thought of Damien taking another woman’s hand and looking into her eyes and telling her the prophecy made him fall in love with her drove her wild. She could not face that possibility.

But the thought of leaving home and England for a remote land she knew little about terrified her.

It was not as though Damien lived in the next county or
even as far away as Northumberland. His kingdom was on the other side of the world, in a land of sharp mountains and cold winters and wild wolves.

She’d asked at supper one night how long the journey to Nvengaria would be. Sasha had answered at once. “A long and difficult road of many perils through many miles. There will be danger at every turn.” His eyes glowed.

Damien had silenced him with a look but hadn’t contradicted him.

Penelope knew that if she hadn’t been so attracted to Damien, the choice would be easy. The sensible part of her told her to refuse Damien’s suit, stay home to look after her mother, to try to reconcile Lady Trask and Michael so the two could make a happy marriage. Remain here as Michael’s stepdaughter and Meagan’s stepsister. That would be best for everyone.

But every time she pictured Damien riding away, never to return, her heart squeezed in pain. Losing Damien would hurt far worse than had crying off her engagements. The feelings did not even compare.

She had a thought—perhaps Reuben and Magnus had been so awful because she was meant to jilt them. Perhaps the prophecy had worked to make certain Penelope was free when Damien at last arrived.

Penelope turned the thought over in her mind, then impatiently dismissed it. She was getting as bad as Sasha.

On the Wednesday after Damien’s arrival, Sasha had them gather in the large drawing room for the ritual of turning Lady Trask’s ring over to Penelope.

Sasha wanted Lady Trask and Penelope to repeat their required phrases in Nvengarian.

“Oh, heavens, I never could,” Lady Trask said, eyes wide. “Goodness, even my French master was that exas
perated because during my lessons I kept calling the Queen of England a
putain
, which means whore, I believe. Goodness, I thought I was using a term of affection.”

Meagan clapped her hand over her mouth, and her eyes grew moist. Penelope looked down in embarrassment.

“You see?” Lady Trask said. “I might blunder.”

“She can say it in English,” Damien broke in, his own Nvengarian accent strengthening with his impatience. “Your mother said the words in English when she gave you the ring.”

“That is true,” Lady Trask said.

“And yet the prophecy continues. Do not make them say the Nvengarian, Sasha. It is impossible.”

Sasha opened his mouth to protest, but looked at Damien’s face and shut it again. Penelope had come to learn that Sasha knew just how far he could push his prince.

And so Penelope stood in the late afternoon sunshine under the huge Palladian window that looked over the garden, and received the ancient silver ring from her mother.

“This ring I give you, of my own free will,” Lady Trask said, “to hold and protect, until destiny draws it forth.”

Lady Trask giggled a little over the words. Then, with Sasha hovering so close Penelope felt the man’s breath on her shoulder, Lady Trask slid the ring onto Penelope’s finger.

Penelope glanced at the card on which Sasha had carefully written her reply. “I accept this ring as the symbol of my lineage. I will safeguard it with pride, and carry it to my destiny.”