Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(5)

Rufus grinned. He opened his arms and said in his thickly accented English, “Drinks for everyone.”

The air thawed noticeably. Damien said to the landlord, “Your best ale for every man in the room, if you please.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pouch that clinked.

An hour later, the place had been transformed. Rufus and Miles played a loud game of dice in the corner with three of the local men. Damien’s coachman stood in the doorway, one eye on the carriage, one on the comely barmaid who brought him ale. Sasha was immersed in a crowd of half-drunk listeners while he tried to explain the entire history of Nvengaria.

Damien drew the largest group with his open friendliness and store of off-color stories. The men of Little Marching laughed and slapped each other on their backs. The ale kept coming.

The commotion attracted the attention of the other villagers. The butcher and the blacksmith shed aprons and shut up shop to join the throng. A few farmers drifted in from their fields. Boys came to ogle Damien’s coach and riding horse, and women peered into the tavern to ogle Damien. The landlord’s daughter gave Damien sly looks from under her lashes.

But Damien had not come for a dalliance. He had a task to complete before Midsummer’s Day, or he would lose his kingdom and very probably his life. He turned to his new friends and asked, “Tell me, is there a house called Ashborn Manor nearby?”

He got fifteen garbled answers, but most agreed that he should ride out of town to the north a mile or so.

Damien rose, remarkably steady on his feet after all the rounds he’d bought, and made a courtly bow. The villagers scrambled to rise and bow back, with varying degrees of success.

Damien lifted his hand in thanks and strolled out of the tavern. The villagers shouted their good-byes.

“Wait, my friends,” Rufus slurred from behind Damien. “Before I go, I teach you Nvengarian dance.”

The tavern roared with laughter, then the clapping began.

The black horse shook its head and snorted as Damien approached. “A little longer my friend,” Damien said quietly, stroking him. “And you can go home.” They both could.

Damien untied the stallion from the carriage, mounted, and rode off to the north.



* * *



“What on earth are they doing?” Meagan asked.

Meagan and Penelope paused on the road that wound down the hill into the village. A strange carriage with horses with purple plumes in their headstalls stood in the square near the well and pump. A line of men were issuing from the door of the public house, their hands on each other’s waists. Occasionally, they’d wave their arms or kick their feet, all the while making an odd chanting sound.

Some of the women who’d been peeking into the tavern were swept into the line. Other villagers, including the vicar, came out of their houses to watch.

“Should we go down?” Meagan asked worriedly.

“I am not certain,” Penelope said in bewilderment.

They watched in fascination a few moments before Penelope heard hoof beats on the curve of the road that was hidden by a stand of trees. A man on a black horse came around that curve, riding straight for Meagan and Penelope.

The beast was one of the finest Penelope had ever seen—her father had taught her to appreciate good horseflesh. This one was well balanced with a strong gait and a sheen to its black coat. It was well bred and obviously well cared for.

The man on its back was taller than any man Penelope knew, including Meagan’s father. He had wide shoulders and powerful legs, and he rode well for a large man, moving in perfect time with his horse.

Tight trousers, Meagan had said in jest. This man wore dun-colored breeches that molded to his thighs, black boots on muscular calves, and his hair, as black as his horse’s, glistened in the sunlight. A black frock coat emphasized the strong build of his torso and the tautness of his abdomen, the tails of the coat sweeping back to reveal narrow hips.

“Oh my,” Meagan said. “Oh my, oh my, oh my.”

Penelope’s heart beat in strange, thick strokes. She felt as though something had taken hold of her body and squeezed it tight. Time seemed to slow, sound and vision melting like heated glass.

The horse was upon them. Penelope knew she should move, but she could not seem to do so. Meagan, timid of horses, scurried to the side of the road, but Penelope remained fixed in place. Transfixed was a better word.

At the last minute, the man halted his mount, pulling it to a stop two steps from Penelope. A puff of dust rose from the horse’s hooves and it tossed its head, bathing Penelope in a warm whuff of breath.

The man turned the beast, a movement that put his firm thigh and leather boot right at Penelope’s eye level. She found her gaze riveted to the line of muscle at his bent knee, the supple folds of the boot around his ankle.

She forced her gaze upward, over his thighs, his chest loosely covered by his shirt and waistcoat, to his face. He had a raw handsomeness, his skin tanned as though he spent much time out of doors, his jaw touched with the shadow of unshaven beard. He wore gloves, expensive ones, if Penelope were any judge, over large and powerful hands.

She suddenly wondered what those hands would feel like on her body.

Penelope sucked in a breath in sudden shock. Why on earth had she thought such a thing? Miss Penelope Trask did not let her imagination go to such scandalous places. And yet …

The man looked down at her with eyes of intense blue, and smiled.