Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(32)

Penelope’s foot halted. “Punishment?”

Damien’s eyes cooled as he again shut himself from her. “I have already said too much.”

“Indeed, you have not. You’ve said entirely too little.”

Damien brushed Penelope’s cheek with his first two fingers, but the heat had gone, the fierce fire between them diminishing. “You know the most important things. There is a prophecy that I must fulfill by Midsummer’s Day, to bring back the true Princess of Nvengaria. You are she. We will have our betrothal ritual here, and our wedding in Nvengaria. You will be able to prepare for the journey, although any clothes and things you need will be provided for you as we go.”

Penelope slid from his enchanting lap and landed on her feet. “A moment, your arrogant Highness. I have not said I will marry you.”

Damien’s eyes held wariness but also a determination that nearly knocked her from her feet. “You will.”

Penelope folded her arms. “You are certain, are you?”

“Yes.” Damien sounded unworried. “You will marry me in the end.”

“Why will I?”

Damien rose. He was too tall, too masculine for Penelope’s feminine room. In his open shirt, with candlelight winking on his silver ring, he looked like a wild Magyar of old that someone had convinced to wear civilized clothes.

Damien’s 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 one brief instant, Penelope wanted to nod her head, melt at his feet, and agree with every word he said. But she, to her family’s despair, had never been a compliant female. Had she been, she’d have married Rueben White and even now be living in misery. Instead, she’d lifted her chin, looked Mr. White in the eye, and told him the engagement was off. The consequences had been dreadful, the gossip vicious, but Penelope had faced down her family and her detractors. She’d found the strength within to stand by her convictions.

She drew upon the same strength now. “Oh, we will, will we?” she asked, her voice haughty.

Damien broke into a sudden wide smile. “Ah, Penelope, what a princess you will make.”

He caught her around the waist, dragged her up to him, and gave her a long, breath-stealing kiss. Then he released her, deliberately turned his back, and strolled to the panel in the wall.

Penelope touched her fingers to her lips and willed her knees not to fail her. She’d not give Damien the Arrogant the satisfaction of falling to the floor and begging him to stay.

Damien swung the panel inward, a rectangle of cold darkness waiting for him like a gaping mouth. Penelope saw him flinch as he peered into the blackness, then he squared his shoulders.

That small movement, the acknowledgement that he had not always been a pillar of strength, undid Penelope like his kisses could not. She snatched up her lit chamber stick and ran to him.

“Here, take this.” She thrust the candlestick into his hand. “You should not suffer the dark because I am angry at you.”

Damien looked down at her, the flame dancing warmth back into his eyes. He said nothing, only slid his hand behind her neck and leaned to her for another kiss.

This one was hot, deep, devouring. Penelope tasted the spice of his mouth, marveled at the hard strength of his fingers on the nape of her neck.

Candlewax spattered to the floor. Damien broke the kiss. He brushed moisture from Penelope’s lower lip, slanted her a smile of hot promise, then ducked through the opening, and was gone.

As soon as Damien closed the panel behind him, Penelope let her legs bend. She fell flat on her back on the carpet, her arms outstretched, and sighed happily.

“What a man.”

Hers for the taking, Penelope realized, 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 encompassed the country of Nvengaria, a man of about thirty-two years with black hair and blue eyes, sat at a table, fingers steepled, and watched his mage peer into a sliver of crystal.

“Well?” Grand Duke Alexander asked, his deep voice tinged with impatience. “Did the spell work?”





Chapter 10





The palace chamber the two men occupied was hung with tapestries across cold stone walls, banners of red, blue, and gold over the doors. The square chair Alexander sat in was old, crafted three centuries ago, carved in elegant Nvengarian tradition.

Alexander wore a fine linen shirt, buff breeches, boots of supple leather, and a military-style coat made of best superfine. A blue sash interwoven 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 member of the Council of Dukes.

Gold rings encircled Alexander’s fingers, and on one, a ruby winked deep blood red. He wore a matching ruby stud in his ear, nearly hidden by his thick 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 forgot Alexander’s. He did not insist they remember, but people seemed to anyway.

Mostly people called Alexander Your Grace—that is, when they could gather the courage to speak to him at all.