Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(106)

“Not much longer,” Damien said without halting.

Since the battle with Felsan, Damien had spoken only Nvengarian, as though he could no longer remember English. Even when he conversed alone with Penelope, he spoke his own language, as though trusting she’d understand.

“You ought to have married Anastasia,” she’d said softly the night before. She’d stumbled over the words, trying to make her Nvengarian smooth. “She knows all about Nvengaria and can turn diplomats up sweet.”

“But she is not the prophesied princess,” Damien had said, then kissed her and lain down to sleep.

Tomorrow was Midsummer’s Day. They had to be in Nvengaria on Midsummer afternoon, to present themselves at the palace and show Damien’s people that the prophecy had come true. If they stopped now, they would arrive too late.

“Sir,” Petri said again.

Damien swung on him. “We are going on,” he shouted over the wind. “When we crest the past and descend, we will get out of this storm.”

Petri frowned, but he conceded.

The wind did not slacken, however. The ground continued to slope up and up and up. Damien had said it would flatten out, that they’d move along a ridge and then take a steep, switchback path down the other side to Ovota, the first village inside the Nvengarian border.

But the trail continued to rise as the wind increased and darkness descended. Penelope shivered uncontrollably, despite the warmth of the horse and Egan’s plaid. She could not imagine how Egan fared in only his jacket and kilt but she could not bring herself to unwrap the plaid and give it back to him.

Penelope could no longer feel her fingers. When she put her hand up to move the hair from her face, her glove came away smeared with blood. The snow had scoured into her skin.

Egan saw. “Damien, damn it, man, we must take shelter.”

“Not much further,” Damien insisted.

He might have encouraged them on, no matter what, if Sasha, a few moments later, had not fallen from his horse and landed in a senseless heap on the ground.





Chapter 30





Egan and Damien found a woodcutter’s hut at the end of a track, deserted and cold, but the absence of wind and snow felt heavenly to Penelope. They brought the horses inside as well, and Egan dug up an armful of branches for them to nibble on. The trees, in full summer leaf, were as confused by the storm as the travelers.

The warmth of the horses and human bodies packed into the small space began to thaw Penelope at last. Her fingers and toes burned, blood painfully squeezing through them.

The six of them huddled together, Penelope and Sasha in the middle, Damien and Petri, Egan and Titus, surrounding them.

Sasha, awake now, slumped against Penelope, barely able to hold the flask of brandy Egan pressed on him.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he whispered to Damien. “I am a weak old man.”

“You are fifty-two,” Damien returned. “Which is no age at all. And we were all freezing.”

Penelope sensed Damien’s deep anger, not at Sasha, but at the storm, at Alexander, and at the prophecy. Damien had been forced into this journey, into the task of finding his princess and returning her in the sunshine of Midsummer’s Day.

He was angry at the time wasted at the Regent’s palace, the delay in procuring the special license to marry Penelope under the laws of England, the time taken to perform the Nvengarian rituals, the time needed to convince Penelope to come with him at all.

Damien had wanted to sweep in, snatch up Penelope, present her to the Nvengarians, throw out Alexander, and get on with ruling. They had all delayed him—Sasha with his fanatic adherence to ritual, Penelope with her bleating about marriages of convenience, Michael insisting on the wedding, the Regent and various ambassadors demanding Damien’s time.

Even with hard riding, they’d never make it by tomorrow to Narato, Nvengaria’s capital city. They’d already lost.

Penelope said in a low voice to Damien, “We can go on, the two of us. We’ll ride together. I can hold on.”

The wind shrieked just then and the roof rattled as though it would fly off any second. In the darkness, Damien said grimly, “No. It would kill you.”

The blizzard howled, mocking them, and they sat in silence for most of the night.

Midsummer’s Day dawned with the blizzard in full force. In the cold of the hut, Egan unwrapped their supplies of meat and bread and shared out the brandy and water. They had plenty of dried coffee, its rich smell leaching from the packet, but no way to heat the water to brew it.

Damien and Egan groomed and tended to the horses. The horses were not elegant beasts, but sturdy, country stock, bred for stamina in the mountains. Neither Petri nor Titus helped in these chores, Egan declaring he was an expert on the beasts, and Damien saying he wanted to do something, refusing to let Petri take over. Titus declared that it was just as well, because he wouldn’t know one end of the animal from the other.

“I know which end we want facing the wall, lad,” Egan said, chuckling.

Horses, true to their natures, had rendered the air pungent, but no one wanted to venture outside to escape the odor.

The day wore on. There was no sun, only a ghostly pale light that leaked around the door and through the cracks in the one window’s shutters.

Evening saw no cease in the blizzard. It raged on, pressing at the walls, threatening again to peel away the roof. Sasha sat with his knees drawn to his chest, silent tears on his face. “The prophecy is broken,” he said hoarsely. “It is too late.”