Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(104)

Damien’s mind clouded as Penelope began rocking her hips against his, making love to him even as she wept. He drew his hands across her back and down to her hips and thighs, tracing circles as he pushed up into her. The high bed creaked and a loose leg thumped against the floorboards as Damien drove hard and high into Penelope.

Penelope’s golden hair fell over him like a curtain. Damien caught strands in his fingers then kissed them. Her tears dropped to his face like the rain that had begun outside the window, tears on the panes to match hers.

Damien rocked swiftly on the bed—scrape-thump, scrape-thump, scrape-thump. Black spots swirled before his eyes and tiny rivulets of sweat furrowed his skin.

Eyes wet, Penelope lay down on him. Her back held beads of perspiration, their legs and bellies slick where they were sealed together. Damien slid his hand between them, but even before he touched her, Penelope cried out in release.

“Love.” Damien heard his hoarse whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut as his own release took him, purple flickering on the edges of his vision.

“Love you, love you.” He kissed her deeply, wanting to be inside her any way he could.

Penelope’s tears fell to Damien’s chest. His climax wound down, though he was still stiff inside her.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. He spoke Nvengarian, too exhausted to think in another language. “It is over, sweetheart. We are still here, still together. If Wulf had not killed Felsan, I would be dead, and I would much rather be here in this bed with you.”

Penelope raised her head, her look fierce despite the droplets on her lashes. “I was glad Wulf killed him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was happy to see the blood, because Felsan wanted to hurt you. I wanted to do what Wulf did. I felt it inside me, that insane rage. I wanted to tear the man apart for trying to hurt you.” She squeezed her eyes closed, as though trying to shut out her fear and rage.

“Sweetheart.” Damien gently drew her down to him and held her close. “It does not matter, love. You were frightened. And I did not particularly want to die.”

Penelope drew a shaking breath. “What is wrong with me?”

“Nothing, love.” Damien smiled into her hair. “You are a Nvengarian, that is all.”

Whether what he said comforted her, or Penelope had simply worn herself out with emotion and lovemaking, her sobs became little hiccups, and then she drew in long breaths, as though trying to still herself.

After a long time, Damien eased Penelope from his body. Limp, she collapsed onto the pillows, and Damien curled around her and fell into a numb, oblivious sleep.



* * *



In the morning, Penelope felt a little better. She’d washed her tearstained face and dressed in the old gown she’d worn since London. The landlord’s wife brought her breakfast of bread and creamy butter, ham and eggs, and Penelope ate heartily.

Out of the tiny window she glimpsed Damien leading two horses toward the inn. Egan and Petri waited for him in the inn yard, the packs of the party’s belongings beside them. Of Wulf, there was still no sign.

Penelope went downstairs to meet the others, ready to press onward toward Nvengaria. She knew the landlord’s wife suspected who they were, and that everyone in the inn must have heard her and Damien’s not very silent lovemaking the night before. Indeed, the landlord’s wife sent her a knowing smile, and when Penelope blushed the woman’s eyes danced in mirth.

The horses, Damien explained when Penelope reached the yard, were for her and Sasha. They still had a long way to go.

Petri hoisted Sasha into the saddle. Sasha looked ill, white-faced and red-eyed, and he clung to the horse like a drowning man to an upturned boat. Damien lifted Penelope onto her horse, laying a warm hand on Penelope’s thigh.

The landlord’s wife pattered out with a packet of cakes that she passed up to Penelope, then she squeezed Penelope’s hand between both of hers and kissed it. She patted Penelope’s foot and said something in a language Penelope did not understand one word of.

“She is speaking a dialect of the mountains.” Sasha said, his voice strained. “She wishes you to go with God and hopes God will bless your union with your husband and your kingdom. She knows who we are.”

“She is a good woman and will say nothing,” Penelope said with conviction. She smiled her thanks at the landlord’s wife, who took a step back and curtsied deeply.

“We need to move on,” Damien said as the landlord’s wife went back inside. He scanned the little group gathered in the yard. “Where the devil is Titus?”

Egan looked amused but cast an embarrassed look at Penelope. “Ah—well. Titus found a lass last night who responded to his winks. I am thinking he’s still at it.”

Petri chuckled but Damien gave his valet a cold stare. “Find him.”

Damien gathered the reins of Penelope’s horse and led the beast out of the yard. Sasha directed his horse to follow. Behind them, Penelope heard Petri shouting, “Titus, lad! Hurry yourself.”

Damien and Penelope had reached the end of the quiet street before Titus burst out of the inn, trying to run and fasten his breeches at the same time. Damien bent a glare on Titus when he reached them, and the young man flushed as he laced his shirt. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

Damien turned from him and pinned Petri with his gaze. “What did you get up to last night? You don’t look so well yourself.”