Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(50)
More brush crackled as the three hurried back up the path. Meagan’s voice floated behind them, swelling with triumph. “Well, they are going to be married. A grand romance, is it not?”
* * *
Later that afternoon, while the guests rested for the feasting and fireworks tonight, or strolled the garden, enjoying the afternoon, Penelope scurried down the main stairs of the house, her hand skimming the banister. She’d changed to a dry gown, her skin damp and refreshed from her impromptu swim. Her maid had brushed out her hair and fastened it in a long tail to dry.
Damien had smuggled Penelope back to the house without anyone spying them, the two of them sneaking in like truant children in their wet clothes. Penelope, who rarely giggled, hadn’t been able to stop. Damien had kissed her to keep her quiet.
Penelope felt strange—tired and yet rested, the sensations Damien had invoked still palpable. She’d never known, until Damien had put his mouth on her, what wild thoughts could fly through her mind, and how flushed and wonderful she could feel.
The intensity of what her body had experienced frightened her a little, but at the same time, Penelope looked forward to experiencing it again.
As she stepped off the last stair, her thoughts far away, Petri, Damien’s valet, stepped directly in front of her.
“Highness,” Petri said. “I speak to you, yes?”
Petri did not know as much English as Sasha, or even the footmen Rufus and Miles. However, Petri’s lack of English had not stopped him from making conquests of several of the Trask maids, if all Penelope heard was correct. She hadn’t the heart to scold the maids—she felt it would be hypocritical as Petri’s master was busy weaving his spell of seduction around Penelope.
“Yes,” Penelope said, nodding at Petri. “I mean, of course.”
“Please to come.” Petri bowed and gestured to the sitting room.
The chamber was mercifully empty. Petri patiently followed her inside, where a tray with a coffee pot, cup, and honey waited on a table, as though he’d prepared carefully for this conversation.
The enigmatic Petri complemented Damien well. They were of an age and possessed roughly the same features—like Damien, Petri had black hair and clear blue eyes plus a barbaric handsomeness that was wreaking havoc below stairs. Damien had the same raw handsomeness, but one controlled and contained, like a honed sword, to serve his needs. Petri’s attractiveness was unstudied and open. He perhaps felt no need to be as cultivated as his master, or perhaps he wanted to intimidate those who tried to get too close to Damien.
Petri gestured Penelope to a chair. Like the good valet he was, he fetched her a footstool, made certain she was comfortable, then carefully poured coffee and added the exact amount of honey Penelope liked.
“Thank you.” Penelope accepted the cup and sipped. Petri nodded and gave a grunt, as if he did not know the words for You’re welcome.
Penelope gestured to the chair facing her, but Petri refused it. He stood looking down at her, his hands behind his back in a military stance. “My English,” he said, “is not so good. I am sorry.”
“That is all right,” Penelope said, taking another sip of coffee before setting the cup down. The brew was excellent. “Take your time.”
Petri studied her for a few moments then drew a breath as though knowing what he had to say would condemn him, but he had to say it anyway.
“You marry Prince Damien, yes?”
Penelope hid a start and shook her head slightly. “I have not yet decided.”
Petri leaned forward, his blue eyes piercing. “No. You marry him.”
Penelope grew uneasy. “I beg your—”
Petri lifted his hands in a curt gesture. “You marry him. If no, die.”
Penelope stared at him. Did he mean to make a threat, or was he simply struggling with English? “What on earth do you mean?”
Petri frowned in frustration. “I have not the way to say.”
“We can send for Sasha if you like. He speaks English well.” She started to rise but Petri stepped in front of her.
“No,” he said harshly, and Penelope thumped back into the chair. “No Sasha.”
Penelope’s nervousness rose. Violence lingered close to the surface in Damien’s Nvengarians—she’d witnessed that in their exhibitions of wrestling and swordplay. She’d also seen that Damien trusted Petri like a brother, but that did not mean Petri would have the same loyalty to Penelope.
Petri motioned for Penelope to remain seated, nodding as though to reassure her. He crossed to the door, opened it, and called out into the hall, “Rufus!”
After a few moments, one of the tall footmen appeared, and he and Petri spoke rapidly and quietly in Nvengarian. Rufus looked past Petri at Penelope then he came into the room, and Petri closed the door.
Rufus bowed to Penelope. “I help Petri speak English.” He looked proud and slightly superior that Petri needed his help.
Petri said something else in Nvengarian, and Rufus turned again to Penelope. “He says he wants you to know. If you do not marry Prince Damien, he will die.”
Something sparked inside Penelope, as though he’d explained a fact she’d already been aware of but refused to acknowledge. “Tell me exactly what you are talking about,” she said, making her voice stern.
“It is the prophecy,” Rufus said apologetically. “The prince must fulfill it by Midsummer’s Day or die. So, if you do not marry, if you do not become the princess …” Rufus trailed off, giving a little shrug as though he could not help what happened next.