Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(76)
Behind him, Nvengarians in uniform filled the chapel, as did ladies and gentlemen of Mayfair, including the Prince Regent in his Bath chair.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” Damien said in clear, rolling tones. “With my body, I thee worship.”
Penelope looked up at him, her eyes serene. She’d been angry, he knew, when she’d interrupted his conversation with Tavistock, in which he’d implied he’d be relieved when all the nonsense was over. Her eyes had flashed, beautiful as always, and she’d loftily inquired whether he’d give her time to pack.
Bloody idiot, Damien chided himself. How charming to tell a woman she is a piece of necessary baggage. His frustration was making him wooden-headed.
He would make it up to her. After the wedding ceremony they would have supper and then the bathing ritual would commence. The idea of the ritual was to metaphorically cleanse the bride and groom of their life beforehand—all their sins, all their mistakes—so that they could start afresh with each other.
A fine idea, which involved running his hands over Penelope’s slick, beautiful body. Damien could not help but look forward to it.
Penelope made the correct responses to the service in a clear voice, neither missish nor shy. She was marrying him in the eyes of her people, in the eyes of English law, and she would hold her head high and not crumple.
The villagers and Londoners hastily prepared to enjoy themselves, and the Nvengarians, never willing to be left out of a celebration, joined in. As Penelope and Damien left the chapel, the mass of them crowded around the door, cheering madly. Voices were raised in joy, albeit rather slurred with the quantities of wine already drunk. Flower petals fluttered in the air like pieces of brilliantly colored silk, drifting down to cling to Damien’s coat and Penelope’s shining hair.
Back at the house, Damien had to endure a long meal punctuated by endless toasts. He held Penelope’s hand under the table, but that was the only contact he had with her.
He knew very well that this was only the beginning of such celebrations, which would become much more elaborate when they reached Nvengaria, if Sasha had his way. He hoped Penelope was up to the strain. He glanced at her as she smiled serenely at those present, and his heart warmed. She was resilient, his princess.
Even so, Damien planned to have plenty of time in private with her. It was Petri’s job to see that Damien and Penelope would be left alone when they needed to be. No one got past Petri. He was a steadfast servant and a loyal friend.
Damien again wondered about the enchanted sleep that had struck the entire household. It had not penetrated as far as the village, inquiries had proven. Only the Trask household and the people in it had been affected. Both Sasha and Petri were busily trying to ferret out the mage who’d cast the spell, but so far, they had not been successful.
As long as no one enchanted Damien and Penelope in the ritual bath, Damien would be contented. Sasha had given him a few charms—feathers and stones twisted with colored wire—that he said would stave off spells. To please him, Damien had tucked the bizarre-looking things in the drawer of the night table and in a corner of the bathing room, though he did not have much faith in them. But one never knew.
At long last, Egan rose from the table. He was clad in his best kilt and formal coat, the plaid of the MacDonalds wrapped about his shoulders. He stood like the tall warrior he was, whose ancestors had terrified the hell out of the ancestors of the Englishmen present back in the ’45.
“My friends,” Egan said, swaying slightly. He had brought out his wedding gift to Damien, bottles of rich amber Scots whiskey, and Damien had insisted they be opened and drunk by the guests. “I give you a good man and an excellent prince. A man who will always be rich in charm and friendship.” Egan grinned. “Who is too damned handsome for his own good, and who’s snared for himself the most courageous, the most beautiful woman to grace the soil of England. I give you, Penelope and Prince Charming.”
“Penelope and Prince Charming!” Light glinted off glasses as they rose into the air.
Egan thumped his goblet back to the table. “And now, let the poor couple do what they’re dying to do—enjoy their nuptial duty.”
The gentlemen roared with laughter. Penelope went bright pink. The ladies laughed as well, Meagan smiling into a napkin.
Damien stood, raising his own glass, and the table quieted. “I thank my friend Mr. MacDonald for his generous words. Egan is anxious to finish this ceremony so he may continue his search for the fabled dram of Nvengarian whiskey, the most potent liquid in all the world. It exists only in legend, but Egan is willing to taste every whiskey he can before giving up. ’Tis his lifelong ambition.”
Laughter echoed around the table. Egan grinned, not offended, knowing Damien needed the attention focused away from Penelope for a few moments.
“A sip to any who help me find the wee thing!” Egan shouted. More laughter from the crowd.
When they quieted, Damien said, “My bride and I must start for home tomorrow, and so we will say our good-byes.” Those who hadn’t known this expressed dismay. Meagan’s happy expression faded. “You have kindly welcomed me and my people into your land. You will never be forgotten.” Damien lifted his glass. “The front gate of our castle will always be open to you.”
That brought another burst of laughter and some applause.
“You have proved good and loyal friends,” Damien continued. “I have prepared gifts for you all, which Sasha will hand around tonight.” He paused and sent a sly glance down the table. “I will be busy.”