Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(97)
Slowly and gently, Damien withdrew his fingers, sliding them away as carefully as he’d slid them inside.
He pushed her to her feet and rid himself of his clothes, then grasped her hips in his hands, still wet with oil, and pulled her down to him again, entering her while he sat in the chair. “We must get as much use as we can out of the ugly thing,” he said, his laughter rumbling.
Penelope crushed herself against him, closing her eyes to feel nothing but him upright inside her. Damien had stationed the chair so the gilded mirror reflected their bodies locked together. Her pale legs twined his strong brown ones, his sinewy hands resting on her hips.
Damien showed her how to move against him to draw him farther into her. When Penelope came this time, he was inside her, heavy and thick, and she cried out for the joy of it.
He came apart with her, closing his eyes tightly, pulling in a breath and letting it out as one long growl.
“I love you,” he said, words hoarse as they both wound down, melding together in the chair. His kisses landed on her hair, her cheeks, her lips. “I love you, sweet Penelope.”
They touched and kissed one another for a long while, eventually using the oil again, this time Penelope massaging it across his firm abdomen, up over his pectorals. Penelope laughed when they slithered from the chair, too slick to remain on it, and Damien’s warm chuckle answered her.
On the carpet, he made love to her, planting his fists beside her and thrusting into her in slow, long strokes.
He was still inside her when Penelope fell asleep, exhausted, on the floor, but woke again to find him carrying her to the bed. Damien laid her in the middle of the huge mattress then climbed up beside her and arranged the bedding around them in a warm, comfortable nest.
Penelope smiled as she drifted to sleep, spooning against Damien’s broad body, his warmth a satisfying blanket. She’d never felt so safe in her life.
* * *
Damien opened his eyes to find Petri standing above him, a worried look in his blue eyes. “Sir.”
He spoke softly, but Damien put his finger to his lips. Penelope slept in the circle of his arm under the sheets, her face relaxed, her body limp.
“I’d not wake you were it trivial,” Petri whispered. The candle he held wavered, splashing hot wax to the coverlet.
“I know.” Damien could not slide from the bed without waking Penelope, so twined together they were, so he nodded at Petri to continue.
“Do you remember, sir, the man called Everard Felsan?” Petri asked.
Damien felt a qualm of disquiet. “The Bavarian pugilist turned mercenary? The man who will do any deed, including murder, for the right amount of gold?”
“That is precisely the man, sir.”
“What about him?” Damien went on, though he knew good and well what Petri was about to say.
“Young Titus came to me swearing he’d spotted Felsan in a tavern near Charing Cross.”
“Young Titus likes to drink and tell dramatic tales,” Damien said, though he wasn’t quick to dismiss the sighting. Titus was young and rash, but no fool.
“I would have said the same, if Rufus and Miles hadn’t rushed in not a quarter hour later with the same news.” Petri looked grim. “Felsan is in London, in this corner of it. I’ll wager even money I know the name of the man he has been sent to kill.”
“Or the woman,” Damien said softly, looking down at the sleeping Penelope. “Damn it all, Petri, we must not let Felsan near her.” He dragged in a breath, his mind spinning plan after plan, until he settled on one. “All right, my friend, here is what I need you to do.”
* * *
In the weak light just before dawn, Penelope followed Damien from the servants’ door of Carleton House and joined a crowd walking to the markets for the morning. Carleton House employed a large staff and the Regent liked to hold lavish entertainments, so shopping for household stuffs took many hours and many hands.
Petri and Titus were nearby, dressed as English servants. Petri wore his breeches and brown coat negligently, but Titus looked aggrieved. He was proud to wear the Imperial Prince’s livery and considered English clothes second class. Even so, he did not seem too out-of-place.
The only incongruous one was Sasha. Petri had wanted to leave him behind with the rest of the entourage, but Damien had refused.
“He’ll slow us down,” Penelope had heard Petri argue as she’d hastily dressed in the next room. She’d learned enough Nvengarian now, thanks to Sasha, that she understood much of Damien’s and Petri’s conversations. “He’ll never pass for English, sir, and he never shuts up about you and the princess. Not that you’re not worth adoration, Your Highness, but he puts you in danger.”
“He is an old man,” Damien had said in a quiet but firm voice. “I will not risk Felsan killing him if he’s left behind, or interrogating him or somehow using him to get to me. I promised to protect him.”
“Easier if you and I slip away on our own,” Petri said. “We draw Felsan after us and lose him. That way the princess and Sasha will be safe.”
At that, Penelope had burst out of the dressing room, hastily hooking up the bodice of the old gown Petri had brought her. “No, indeed,” she’d said hotly. “I’ll not sit here in this birdcage of a palace while an assassin chases you.”