Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(98)
“We all go.” Damien’s tone was stern. “You and I, Petri; Penelope and Sasha, and Titus and Egan MacDonald.”
“And Wulf,” Penelope added.
“And Wulf, since he will not leave your side.” Damien nodded at her. “Felsan no doubt has hired men to help him, and drawing away Felsan’s attention would do no good if he is targeting Penelope rather than me. We all go—we will slip away and get ourselves to Nvengaria as quickly as possible.”
Damien spoke tightly, and Penelope knew he was worried, not only about the assassin, but about making the long journey in time. Midsummer’s Day was fast approaching, and Damien had hoped to be well on the way by now.
They told only a few others of the plan. Rufus and Miles were devastated to be left behind, but they brightened when Damien told them the part they were to play. Under the cover of darkness, a sumptuous carriage, its interior heavily curtained, rattled from the gates of the palace and hastily turned east, heading for the Dover road.
Petri claimed that several shadows detached themselves from the nearby streets and followed the coach. If they caught it, they’d find Rufus and Miles inside, looking innocent and drunk.
Damien said he did not believe the decoy would draw Felsan for long, but it would give the rest of them time to leave the palace and begin their journey.
Penelope wore a scarf over her golden hair and a flat hat on top of that, which went with her dark brown gown and apron, the garb of a kitchen maid. Damien had borrowed clothes from a stable hand—loose shirt and coat, breeches, and scuffed boots.
He in no way looked odd in these clothes, in Penelope’s opinion, though they were a far cry from his fine suits and Nvengarian prince’s regalia. She remembered Damien’s stories about how he and Petri had worked as farm laborers for years, struggling to survive. Damien had grown up in clothes like these, she realized, and was probably more comfortable with them than he was with the trappings of princes and aristocrats.
Wulf dressed like an errand boy, looking the most comfortable of the lot in his shabby clothing. He clung to Penelope’s hand and gazed about him in wonder, rather ruining the disguise, but the people of London seemed to ignore small boys by habit.
They walked through Charing Cross and the Strand to the markets at Covent Garden with the other servants. There, they filled baskets and sacks with food and drink, then broke from the Carleton House staff and continued quietly along the Strand toward the City, still looking like nothing more than servants running morning errands for their masters.
At the water stairs near Somerset House, Damien led them down to the Thames, where Egan waited in a small barge. Egan helped Penelope over the gunwale and down into the cabin that lay below the flat deck.
“I was army, not navy,” Egan said to Damien. “And I’m already seasick. Why am I in charge of watercraft?”
“If anyone could procure a boat, it would be you,” Damien replied, sending him a grin.
Egan guffawed, mollified. They pushed off from the stairs, Penelope peering from a gritty window in the bow as the bank of the Thames flowed by. She thought she spied a shadow at the top of the stairs they’d descended and opened her mouth to tell Damien.
“I saw him,” Damien breathed into her ear. He laced his arms around her, drawing her back against him. “He’s watching, but has not signaled or made to follow. Soon we will be lost in the crowd hurrying to the sea.”
Penelope leaned into him, closing her eyes. Visions of the previous night swam through her head—his warm body pressing hers to the carpet, the tickle of wool on her back, the hot touch of his tongue on her lips.
“You will be safe,” Damien said softly. “I promise I will keep you safe.”
“But will you be?” Penelope asked in worry.
“No.” Damien nibbled her ear and pressed a kiss to her neck. “I am the Imperial Prince of Nvengaria. I have not been safe since the day I was born. If I keep ahead of those trying to kill me, I think that is enough.” He smiled into her skin. “Life is exciting this way. I never live one moment without appreciating it, and every joy that comes to me is all the sweeter. I have learned to savor the beauty I find—beauty like you.”
Penelope turned in his arms and kissed him, then held him close. Savoring, yes, she had learned to enjoy every second of time with him as well.
It was there, in the dingy cabin smelling of old potatoes and the brackish mud of the Thames, that Penelope at last realized what she had pledged herself to do. She’d given up the peaceful life of a spinster in her mother’s house, her entertainment writing books of folktales in her plain hand, for a life of tumultuous love and danger. Her days had been lonely sometimes, but filled with simple joys, the sort that Damien longed for, the sort he was not allowed to have.
Penelope would give him that, she vowed to herself. Sweet simplicity, a respite from his life of tension and fear. She’d make a place for him where he could lay his head on her shoulder and sleep, free of care.
Penelope would do this for him, she thought as she turned to him and kissed him, if it took all her resources and all her strength. She could give him every bit of happiness in her power and the resilience to face bravely whatever was to come.
As the Thames moved them downriver to the sea toward unknown danger, Penelope lifted her head and faced her future.
* * *
“They seem to be on water,” Nedrak said, peering shortsightedly into the scrying stone between his fingers. “With sails. A ship. Hmm. The captain looks a veritable pirate. Perhaps they have been captured.”