Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(35)
But the thought of leaving home and England for a remote land Penelope knew little about terrified her.
It was not as though Damien lived in the next county or even as far away as London. His kingdom was on the other side of the world, in a land of sharp mountains, cold winters, and wild wolves.
Penelope had asked at supper in their large dining room one night how long the journey to Nvengaria would be. Sasha, across the table from her, had answered at once.
“A long and difficult road of many perils through many miles. There will be danger at every turn.”
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 simple. The sensible part of her told her to refuse Damien’s suit, to stay home and look after her mother. She would try to reconcile Lady Trask and Michael so the two could make a happy marriage. She’d remain here as Michael’s stepdaughter and Meagan’s stepsister—that would be best for everyone.
But each time she envisioned Damien riding away, never to return, Penelope’s heart ached. Losing Damien would leave a hole in her life that would not easily be mended. Whether that was from the magical prophecy, or whether Penelope had well and truly fallen in love with Damien made no difference. The pain was very real.
She had a thought during one of her sleepless nights—perhaps Rueben and Magnus had been so awful to her 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 becoming as bad as Sasha.
One week 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, my French master was exasperated because I kept calling the Queen a putain, which means whore, I believe. I thought I was using a term of affection.” She laughed, but when she glanced at Michael, her eyes showed her misery.
Penelope flushed, and Meagan stifled giggles.
“You see?” Lady Trask said, motioning to them with a willowy hand. “I might blunder.”
“You may say it in English,” Damien broke in. “Your own mother said the words in English when she gave you the ring, did she not?”
“Indeed,” Lady Trask said. “My mother couldn’t speak a word of any language but English.”
“And yet the prophecy continues,” Damien said to Sasha. “Do not make them use the Nvengarian, Sasha. It is impossible.”
Sasha opened his mouth to argue but caught Damien’s eye 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 large 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, repeating the words Sasha gave her. “You must hold and protect it, until destiny draws it forth.”
Lady Trask laughed a little over the words, then, with Sasha hovering so close Penelope felt his 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.”
Sasha’s lips moved along with Penelope’s as she spoke, and when Penelope released Lady Trask’s hand, he let out a breath of relief. “It is done.”
The Nvengarian servants in the hall whooped in delight, and a few English servants followed suit. Mathers looked aggrieved. But the Trask servants had decided that the Nvengarians’ high spirits and habit of bringing out ale or whiskey to celebrate just about anything were more to their taste than quiet soberness.
In the drawing room, Petri poured blood-red wine and handed it around. Penelope sipped hers, surprised at the wine’s thick, mellow taste. Meagan took a hearty swig until Michael gave her a stern look, then she innocently set the goblet on the table.
In the hall, one of Damien’s footmen, Rufus or Miles—Penelope could not be sure which—shouted, “All hail Princess Penelope!”
“All hail Princess Penelope!” came the returning cry, in English and in Nvengarian.
Lady Trask looked proud, Meagan, excited.
Damien was watching Penelope. She pretended not to notice, but the look in his eyes was dark, intense, and satisfied.
* * *
Damien quit the house soon after the ring-bestowing ritual to avoid succumbing to temptation and dragging Penelope off to have his way with her. He’d wanted to pull her to him and kiss her and kiss her, no matter how many people stood around them and gawped.
Penelope accepting the ring meant she acknowledged her lineage. That she was Damien’s for the taking. She’d looked up at him with confusion in her starry eyes, beginning to believe in her fate and not certain she wanted to.
Damien longed to take her to bed and show her everything her fate could be.
Best that he leave the house before he swept her into his arms and ran upstairs with her, thus negating the prophecy, ruining his country, and playing into Alexander’s hands.