Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(59)

Damien slashed out again with the knife, this time catching the creature on its skinny arm, but the blade was too small to do much damage. The logosh swung back to him, snarling.

Then Egan MacDonald appeared out of nowhere and plunged his dagger into the creature’s shoulder. “Take that, hell beastie.”

The logosh let out a scream and shot straight upward. It scampered along the ceiling, favoring its left arm. It then flung itself from the ceiling through an arched window with a shattering of glass, and was gone.

“After it,” Egan shouted. “It’s wounded. We’ll hunt it ’til it is dead.”

He raced out of the ballroom, the Nvengarians and more able-bodied Englishmen running after him.

“I have not seen Egan that happy in a long time,” Damien observed to Petri, who came panting up to where he stood with Penelope.

“They’ll catch it for certain, sir. Saints and sinners, was that truly a logosh?” Petri rubbed his hand over his hair. “I thought they were make-believe.”

Sasha stared out the broken window. “No, no, lad. They are plenty real.”

Damien dropped the knife, stained with black blood, to the tray. “Penelope, love, are you all right?”

Penelope drew a shaking breath, her face flushed, curls escaping her pins. “I believe so.” She raised her hand, twining her fingers about his. “Look. We are still joined.”

It happened then. Damien’s control, held in check for too long, snapped. “Petri,” he said in a tight voice.

Petri understood. “The chamber is ready, sir. I will guard it myself.”

Hunger coursed through Damien, his veins raw with it. He closed his hand around Penelope’s wrist. She looked startled, but he read the same hunger in her eyes. “Time to consummate this betrothal, love.”

Penelope could have bleated many questions, beginning with What? Now? But she did not. His betrothed, bless her, merely nodded.

Damien more or less dragged her out of the room, Penelope’s slippers pattering on the floor in time with his heavier stride. They passed the Regent, who was fanning himself with a large handkerchief, and Michael Tavistock, his arms full of a half-swooning Lady Trask.

Meagan had run to the window with the braver of the ladies to cheer on the gentlemen hunting the monster. Sasha joined them, repeating, “He sent a logosh, by the saints.”

No one was left to witness Damien scoop his lady into his arms and carry her away. Nvengarian custom was that a gentleman and his newly betrothed were followed to the bedchamber by their friends and servants, who shouted and sang and made ribald jokes.

But only Petri followed them, in silence, up the stairs. The rest of the Nvengarians were out chasing the damned logosh, which, Damien thought, was probably just as well.





Chapter 17





Penelope sensed the change in Damien as soon as they had helped each other to their feet in the ballroom. His face was set but his eyes held a wildness she’d never seen in him.

Damien carried her out into the main hall and up the stairs to the next floor, though she was quite capable of walking. Or, perhaps she was not. Penelope’s heart pounded, and she was almost dizzy with fear and excitement.

Damien sliced one loop of the rope that bound their hands, and it dropped away as he carried her into his bedchamber in the guest wing that had been transformed into a royal bower for them. The walls had been hung with red, blue, and gold—Nvengaria’s colors—the posts of the bed looped with gold rope, tassels gathered over the footboard. The Nvengarian royal crest hung above the headboard, and the room was filled with vases of roses, the scent of them nearly overpowering.

Petri, who’d followed them, caught up the rope that had twined their wrists and tossed it to the bed. Seeing the thin rope lying there innocently stirred something inside Penelope. She was bound to Damien—that was what the ceremony said—and now she’d be bound to him on that bed.

Damien set Penelope on her feet. She put a hand to the nearest chair to steady herself as Petri stood before Damien and carefully removed his sash of office. Petri then slid the coat from Damien's shoulders, the sleeve of it shredded where the creature had caught him.

When Petri reached for the cravat, Damien waved him away. Penelope understood enough Nvengarian now to follow their exchange even if she didn’t know every word. “Out,” Damien said.

Petri folded Damien’s coat over his arm and grinned. “I’ll be right outside, sir.”

“Not too close,” Damien said in a warning voice.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Petri,” Damien said as Petri reached the door. “Thank you.”

Petri didn’t answer. With another grin, he faded out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

“What if there is more than one?” Penelope asked, standing stiffly in the middle of the room.

Damien paused in the act of tugging his cravat knot loose. “More than one what?”

“One of those creatures?” Penelope balled her hands. “Whatever it was?”

Damien resumed undoing the knot and pulled the folds of the cravat from his neck. His bare, brown throat came into view. “There should not have been even one. It is a creature from myth.”

“Another Nvengarian folktale?”

Damien unbuttoned his waistcoat and untied the tapes of his lawn shirt. “The logosh. Legend has it that they were cursed a thousand years ago to live as half demon and half human, able to take the form of wild beasts—wolves, for example—and were shunned by the rest of the world. But they are stories in books. They are not supposed to exist.”