Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(60)
“Perhaps you should explain so to the one that just made a mess of my mother’s ballroom.” Penelope tried to sound calm, a stoic Englishwoman who could face anything, but the shake in her voice betrayed her.
Damien threw aside his waistcoat and closed the distance between them. “Devil take it, Penelope,” he said as he seized her by the hands. “It could so easily have killed you.”
“And you.” She pushed at him. “It tore your arm.” Penelope fingered the slashes on his shirt, stained with blood.
“He barely scratched the skin.” Damien quickly slid out of his shirt and tossed it aside. She smelled the warmth of him and wanted more than anything to place her palms on his chest, splaying her fingers across it.
Penelope touched the wound instead. He was correct—it consisted of little more than parallel streaks through his flesh, none very deep.
“Still, it might take sick,” Penelope said. “I should wash this, perhaps make a poultice.” She spoke distractedly.
Damien stepped against her, and his hand slid behind her back. “Very well then. Heal me, Penelope.”
His sweat-dampened skin was an inch from her lips. Penelope brushed a kiss to the round of his shoulder, then daringly licked it. Damien made a raw noise, his hand tightening on her back.
“I will need water,” Penelope said.
She made herself step away from Damien’s enticing body and went to his washbasin, where she found hot water waiting, probably ordered by the efficient Petri. A cloth hung on the washstand, and she wet and wrung this out then turned back to him.
She directed Damien to sit on the chair she’d steadied herself on and washed his arm, drawing the damp cloth gently over the scratches. He watched her, closely scrutinizing with his blue eyes, lashes flicking as he followed her movements.
“You understand what this bonding ceremony meant, did you not?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“We are betrothed.” Penelope’s face heated. “Now we may …” She broke off pretending to study his wound closely as she rubbed away the already dried blood with her cloth.
“Not only that,” Damien said gently. “We are joined—as one. Life-mates we say in Nvengaria. Bound to each other and also responsible for each other.”
Penelope looked at him in surprise. “But we are not married, yet. I thought the wedding would take place in Nvengaria itself.”
“It will. But the ceremony we just finished was the only one couples went through in ancient days, before Christianity reached Nvengaria. The Catholic priests who wandered in to tame the barbarians in the mountains imposed their own marriage ritual on us as well, which is why we have two. The priests, not being fools, saw that our bonding ritual was important to us and agreed to let us keep it, calling it a betrothal ceremony. They knew that if they did not let Nvengarians keep their rituals, the priests would be cut to pieces, and Nvengaria even now would be pagan. The old ways are much revered in my home.”
Penelope shot him a startled glance as she finished wiping away the blood.
Damien continued. “That is why children conceived after betrothal are not illegitimate. Because to us, by Nvengarian custom, we are already married.” He reached up and touched her cheek. “But we are not married by English custom, Penelope. So, if you wish to run away, you still may.”
Penelope’s breath caught as she met his gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, waiting. “Do you wish me to leave?” she asked.
Damien’s thumb brushed her lower lip, spreading heat. “I want you never to go,” he said, his voice soft. “I need you. Not only for the prophecy, not only for Nvengaria.”
“To prevent you being killed,” Penelope said softly. Her heart squeezed as she remembered Rufus miming the execution, and her mind’s eye placing Damien, bound, blindfolded, in front of the guns, falling as the firing squad blasted holes through him.
“Not even for that,” Damien was saying. “I need you for a far more basic reason than the one I came for.”
“You need a princess.” Penelope made herself brush away the vision. “You came here to find a princess—any princess.”
Damien’s voice went low. “Perhaps I believed so when I started out from Nvengaria. Perhaps I still believed so when I arrived in Little Marching. I believed it until I saw you, and I kissed you.” He brushed his thumb over her lips again. “And then the world changed.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry. “That was the prophecy. Wasn’t it?”
“I can blame many things on the prophecy. Sasha believes it guides the stars. I never meant for it to guide me. I never meant to love you.” Damien gave a mock sigh. “But I do, and so be it.”
“You always know the right words to say,” Penelope said, her tongue tangling up. “You are ever Prince Charming.”
Damien’s brows rose. “I do not feel charming at this moment. I am insane with wanting you. Any pretty words are accidental.”
Penelope’s blood felt hot, but she was suddenly shy. She thought of the beautiful, golden-haired Russian countess and the willowy baroness. “Why should you want me? I am plain Penelope Trask.”
Damien shot her a surprised look. “Any man with eyes would want you, love. Seeing the shock on Egan MacDonald’s face when he beheld you was worth my journey. He looked as though, I believe the English expression is, a ton of bricks had fallen on him.”