Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(100)
But there was no lazing together afterward, no games, no wickedness, only basic, quick lovemaking and sleep, then endless roads with the saddle hard under Penelope’s backside. Wulf usually rode curled up on the saddle blanket behind her, in his little boy form. The nervous horse knew Wulf was more than he seemed, but the lad remained quiet and calm.
They traveled out of France, through Wurttemberg and into Bavaria, ever eastward, until they reached the waters of the Danube. In a little town with tall, narrow houses pressed together on narrow streets, Damien and Petri traded the horses for a small watercraft and a man to guide them.
Penelope huddled in the stern of the boat as they pushed away from the banks and drifted between high-cut hills, bright green with summer. Castles rose around almost every narrow bend—either a squat, ruined tower of an ancient fortress; the stern, upright walls of a later castle with round battlements; or a lacy palace glittering with windows, the summer home of some sprig of German aristocracy. They had to stop interminable times for tolls, but Damien paid them over without a word.
Penelope watched the world slide by, never tiring of it. This was the first time she’d been out of England, and around every corner she found a new sight. Wulf gazed about with the same wonder. Damien’s men, including Titus, slept against the gunwales as though uninterested in all this splendor.
Sasha, on the other hand, kept up a running monologue on the prophecy and the importance of arriving in Nvengaria at the precise moment until Petri threatened to gag him. They were running behind already, and the atmosphere was tense.
The mountains rose and Penelope bathed her senses in the beautiful, craggy cliffs above the river. It was full summer, which meant that stiller parts of the river teemed with tiny flies, determined to make a meal of everyone in the little boat. They passed a few miserable nights, besieged by gnats, except for Wulf, who happily ate them.
“Make him stop that,” Egan complained one dark night as he waved away the flies, cursing as they bit him.
Damien shrugged, swatting at the swarm about his face. “He is hungry. At least the bugs are encouraged to look elsewhere for a meal.”
Egan was white to the lips. “Have pity on me. I’ve not had a drop of whiskey in days.”
“’Twill be good for your soul,” Damien said.
“I haven’t got a soul. Not anymore.” Egan groaned and lay back down, arm over his eyes.
“Is he all right?” Penelope asked Damien in a quiet voice. “He looks in a bad way.”
Damien leaned close to answer. “He has taken to the bottle more since the war ended. He feels useless. At a loose end, as you English say.”
“Perhaps he should marry.”
Damien gave a soft snort of laughter. “Not Egan. He is in favor of marriage in theory but not practice, not for himself anyway.”
“Very likely because the woman he loves is married to another.” Penelope sighed, both feeling sorry for Egan and liking a good romantic tale.
Damien gave her a puzzled look. “The woman he loves? What woman?”
“Someone called Zarabeth.”
“Zarabeth?” Damien repeated, starting in shock.
“Do you know her? Egan told me of her the night of the ball the Regent gave for us, the night that …” She broke off, blushing. She’d behaved shamelessly, and the trouble was she was not ashamed.
Damien sent her a smile full of promise. “When we are off this boat, and in a bed …” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I will show you so much more than we did that night.”
A hot shiver ran through her. “There is more?”
“Oh, yes, Princess.”
They said nothing for a time, Penelope reliving the memories. As she settled back into his arms, she said, “Tell me about this Zarabeth.”
“She’s my cousin,” Damien answered quietly. “She has the title of princess, although her family is from a very distant branch of my family. I knew Egan was fond of her, but he never professed love. Interesting.”
“Perhaps he did not to you,” Penelope said. “But he loves her. I know it.”
Damien looked thoughtful, but “Hmm,” was all the wretched man would say.
* * *
As the journey continued, they saw no sign of Felsan or any other assassin. Damien, Penelope could see, was uneasy about this.
“The mark of an excellent assassin,” Petri said. “He’ll find us, and at just the right moment, he’ll pounce.”
Petri’s predictions did not make for a relaxing journey. They left the boat in Vienna, Damien paying the boatman handsomely. The Danube here was clogged with huge barges and ships traveling east from Bavaria and Austria and west from as far away as Russia and the Black Sea.
Vienna was a beautiful city, Damien promised, but Penelope saw nothing of it. Petri led them to an inn away from the fashionable world of opera, music, and the brilliant imperial palace.
Late that night Lady Anastasia entered the private parlor Damien had taken and pushed back her cloak to reveal ballroom finery and diamonds in her hair.
“I will not offer you the inferior wine,” Damien said as Anastasia seated herself and gave Penelope a warm smile. “You journeyed quickly.”
“A fast carriage, frequent changes of horses, and a haughty manner works wonders,” Anastasia said in her clear voice. She spoke English with little trace of accent—Penelope knew she’d chosen English so Penelope could understand the conversation. “I was followed all the way. Alexander is taking no chances.”