Damien looked and forgot about Petri’s too-shrewd digs.
At the other end of the High Street, Penelope was walking, basket on arm, with Meagan Tavistock. Meagan saw them and waved.
Damien lifted his hand. Penelope did not return the salute, but he felt her gaze rest on him, and his blood began to warm.
Sasha, still wearing his sash of office, trotted behind the ladies, followed by several Nvengarian servants. Good man, Sasha. He was carrying out Damien’s orders to protect the princess at all times.
Men began pouring out of the tavern, singing a bawdy song about a lass and a man at her window. He would have to translate it for Petri, who would laugh.
Damien felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. His attention on Penelope, he assumed it a reveler wanting to thank him for his generosity.
Then Petri cried out and shoved Damien hard. Damien kept his balance and spun around to see a man with irongray hair and a wild look in his Nvengarian-blue eyes fight his way free of Petri. He lunged at Damien again, a hooked knife raised.
“Nvengaria!” he screamed.
Damien twisted out of the way as the knife came down. Petri grabbed the assassin from behind. The man fought ferociously, his expression insane but determined. He would kill Damien or die trying.
The men from the tavern caught on to the situation. They rushed to help, shouting, fists waving.
The assassin flailed his knife at Petri, who jumped out of reach with a curse. The villagers swarmed around the assassin, keeping him away from Damien, but they tangled up with each other, causing more chaos. In the milling confusion, the man squirmed away and hurtled down the High Street toward Penelope.
“Sasha!” Damien shouted.
Sasha looked up, alert, his mouth open, as the man ran at them, sprinting hard. Penelope and Meagan stopped, poised, not understanding.
Damien started running, knowing he’d never catch the man in time. The Nvengarian footmen, trained to protect their masters, rushed forward, but they were too far away. Mouth dry, he watched the assassin reach Sasha, who’d stepped in front of Penelope.
Meagan screamed and dashed behind the well at the end of the street. Sasha shoved Penelope against the wall of the well, shielding her body with his as the assassin sprang at her.
The assassin’s knife came down, right into Sasha’s back.
An instant later, the Nvengarian servants grabbed the man. The tavern-goers, shouting like Saxon warriors of old, pounded toward them.
The man jerked the knife from Sasha’s body, the blade covered in blood. He screamed, “Nvengaria!” again, before plunging the knife into his own chest.
Sasha was sliding to the ground, Penelope trying to hold on to him. Blood blossomed on the back of his coat, too much blood.
Damien reached them, and caught the man as he fell. “Sasha.”
Penelope knelt, her hand on Sasha’s chest. Her greengold eyes were anguished, her hand bloody where she’d scraped it against the stone well.
Damien’s heart thumped until he was nauseated with it. Damn, damn, damn. A Nvengarian assassin right here in this peaceful little village. And when he couldn’t kill Damien, he’d gone straight for Penelope.
“Sasha,” he breathed. Don’t be dead, God damn you.
Sasha opened his eyes. His voice was weak. “Your Highness. I am not afraid to die for you.”
“You will not die, old man, do you hear me?” Damien signaled to the servants. “Get him into the tavern and get his shirt off. Stop the bleeding.”
The footmen, hand-picked by Damien for just these emergencies, moved into action. Rufus had a litter made and Sasha loaded onto it in minutes. Damien stood up as they lifted Sasha, who was bravely trying to keep quiet.
Penelope stood up with them, her hand on Sasha’s shoulder. She had not said a word since Sasha’s fall, but her eyes spoke volumes. She understood what had happened, what Sasha had done and why.
As soon as Rufus led off the train of servants bearing Sasha, Damien crushed Penelope in his arms. She landed against his chest, her soft hair brushing his chin. She smelled of sweet roses and sunshine.
He kissed her, a hard, brutal kiss that held his fear and his fury, never mind the damned villagers watching.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in a rough voice.
She shook her head mutely. Her ungloved hand rested on his chest, the silver ring shining softly in the sunlight.
The ring said she belonged to Nvengaria, and to him. He tightened his arms around her, kissing the silky press of her hair. He needed to touch her. He needed to spend three days in bed with her, his hands on her body, savoring every inch of her.
If Sasha died, Damien would take it out on every ounce of Alexander’s hide.
If Penelope died, Damien knew he’d die himself. After he killed Alexander.
So this is what love does to you. It eats you from the inside out, and never lets you rest.
Prophecy or no prophecy, spell or no spell, he needed Penelope with him forever.
He cupped her face in his hands. “I couldn’t reach you in time.”
Her lips were bloodless, her eyes filled with the same stark worry he felt. “I saw him try to stab you. Why?”
Meagan’s voice sounded beside them. “Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy. Does this happen to you all the time, Damien?”
She pushed her flyaway red hair from her face and gazed in horrified fascination at the would-be assassin on the cobbles. His eyes were wide in death, and a trickle of blood stained his mouth.
“More than I’d care for it to,” Damien answered.
“He’s dead, is he not?” Meagan pressed a hand to her throat. “How awful.”
Penelope was looking at Damien, not the corpse. “It happens to you often?”
He shrugged slightly. “I am Imperial Prince of Nvengaria.”
She wouldn’t let him get away with merely that, he knew, but she could say nothing more in the middle of the crowd.
The men from the tavern and the Nvengarian servants who hadn’t accompanied Rufus with Sasha stared down at the body. Damien did not recognize the man, but he was obviously Nvengarian. He had the eyes, the sculpted face, the bearing.
“What do we do with ’im?” a man asked.
Another, who proved to be the constable of the parish, scratched his head. “Well, we all watched him do himself in. Coroner might want an inquest, but there ain’t much doubt. Foreign. Excitable. Tried to kill His Highness and offed himself when he couldn’t. One of these radicals, no doubt.”
“I want to see Sasha.” Penelope tried to disentangle herself from Damien.
He nodded, understanding. He kissed her briefly and skimmed his hand down her back once more before he let her go. “Meagan,” he said. “Go with her.”
Meagan tore her gaze from the dead man as though she found it difficult to look away from him. Her eyes held stark horror, but her back was straight, and her concern was for Penelope as she took her hand.
Damien’s estimation of Meagan rose. She was a staunch and steadfast friend. The two ladies walked toward the tavern, bodies close as though protecting each other from shock. Penelope’s basket lay forgotten in the dirt, her shopping list ruffled by the slight breeze.
Once the ladies were out of earshot, the Nvengarian men let their emotions flow. One footman spit on the body.
“We will tear him apart,” another said, his eyes blazing. “Nail bits of him to every tree as a warning to those who dare try to kill our prince.”
“And our princess,” another growled.
The others shouted assent.
They spoke in Nvengarian, but the Englishmen seemed to get the gist.
“Bloody upstart,” one growled. “We should hang him from a gibbet.”
More shouts.
“Now, gents,” the constable interjected.
Damien said to his own men, “Let the English deal with this in their way.”
The Nvengarians quieted a little, but their blood was up. They wanted something to fig
ht.
“I will hunt that pig Duke Alexander and make him pay,” the first one said.
“Steady, lad,” Petri said, coming up beside Damien. “You wouldn’t get closer than his fifth bodyguard.”
“I will kill him and make him drink his own blood.”
“I’d like to watch that.” Petri grinned. “You know, Titus, these English lads here have never seen Nvengarian wrestling. Work off some steam and show them a thing or two.”
Titus’s young eyes gleamed. “Yes, sir.” He switched to struggling English and pointed at the villagers. “You. Come. We show you fight.”
“Do not kill anyone,” Petri said mildly. “They’re our allies.”
Titus nodded gravely. “I will try to remember.”
The footmen led the villagers off, save for the constable and a few men left to deal with the body.
Damien turned away. His blood was boiling as much as young Titus’s. If Alexander chose to throw assassins at Damien, well and good. But not Penelope. Never Penelope.
He would have joined in the Nvengarian-style wrestling, which involved much kicking and punching and more resembled a free-for-all, if he weren’t so concerned for Sasha.
“Titus is not wrong,” Damien said as he and Petri made quickly for the tavern. “Alexander will answer for this.”
“Are you sure it was the duke?” Petri asked. “Not very subtle for one of his assassins. In broad daylight and you surrounded by loyal men? He’d never hope to get away.”
“He nearly succeeded,” Damien pointed out. “If not for you, he would have. No, this is Alexander’s work, Petri. He’s found a way to rid Nvengaria of its dangerous radicals. ‘Go hunt Prince Damien,’ he’s told them. And they have.”
“Shit, sir.”
“Exactly. I want Penelope protected. At all times. No one is to get near her. Ever. Do you hear me?”
“I understand.”
Petri did. Damien knew the man would take care of things. They walked quickly to the tavern and ducked inside.
Chapter Ten
Penelope pressed the cloth to the wound in Sasha’s back, her heart heavy. This man had saved her life. At the cost of his own?
She would never let that happen, she thought determinedly. The landlord had already sent a lad running for a surgeon, Mr. Phipps from Coombe Stepping, three miles away.
Sasha had bleated an embarrassed protest when they took off his coat and waistcoat and shirt, and had remained distressed until Meagan had consented to move off a little and turn her back.
On the other hand, he’d begged Penelope to stay. Held her hand tightly as though her very presence comforted him. She didn’t have the heart to leave him.
He lay still now, face down, eyes closed, but he was awake and breathing normally, if heavily. Perhaps they might be lucky, and the wound would not be mortal.
Penelope replayed the scene over and over in her mind, beginning with the man putting his hand on Damien’s shoulder and aiming a knife straight at him. She had frozen, too far away to do anything, knowing at that moment she would watch Damien die.
Deep emotion she’d never known had rushed to her throat. Time had slowed, and she’d seen the knife flash with deadly accuracy toward Damien’s heart.
When Petri pushed Damien aside, and the man had twisted away, Penelope had gone weak with relief. Even the sight of the crazed assassin running for her, the pain of the stones scraping her hands as Sasha pushed her against the well, had not scared her like seeing Damien nearly die.
She glanced at the ring on her finger, heavy and silver and old. She’d seen her mother wear it dozens of times, and her grandmother wear it before that. Did it have something to do with her strange need for Damien’s well-being?
She sensed Damien enter the room. The men shifted as though his presence pushed them aside.
“Sasha, my old friend.” Damien’s voice held a note of gentleness she hadn’t heard before. He placed his hand on Sasha’s bare, rather plump shoulder. “For this service, I can never repay you. You will be honored in the city square of Narato. We will give you a parade.”
This seemed to be the right thing to say. No thanks or sorrow or remonstrating for getting himself hurt.
Sasha brightened. “I only do my duty, Your Highness.”
“True, but you could easily have stepped aside and let the bodyguards fight him off. It is their duty, not yours.”
Sasha put out his hand. Damien clasped it. The older man clung to Damien’s hand, seeming comforted by touching the silver Nvengarian ring. “The sacrifice is an honor.”
“I’ll not let you sacrifice your life. I need you still. A surgeon is coming. He’ll stitch you up and have you organizing the rituals again in no time.”
Damien spoke confidently, but he looked worried. The wound might not have cut an organ, but it was deep and could so easily fester.
Sasha patted Damien’s hand. “Do not worry, Highness. The princess is here. She will heal me.”
Penelope looked up in surprise. Damien caught her eye, shook his head slightly. “You’re not that far gone, Sasha. The surgeon will help.”
“I need no surgeon if I have the princess.” He spoke with happy certainty.
“Damien,” Penelope whispered. “What does he mean?”
Sasha heard her. “The true princess of Nvengaria has the power to heal the sick and the injured.”
Penelope’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to bleat a protest—she could certainly make a poultice and brew an herbal tea, but that did not mean she could close a man’s wound or keep fever from entering his body.
Damien put his hand under her arm and pulled her to a corner. “Humor him, love. He needs you.”
She stared. “Are you mad? When did you plan to mention this aspect of being the princess?”
“When it came up. Which it has.”
“But I cannot heal him,” she insisted. “What will happen when I cannot? Will he denounce me?”
“No, because you will heal him.”
She studied his face, which was beautiful like a bright blade. “Damien, I cannot, truly.”
“Wash his wound, rub his back, do something. Trust me.”
His blue eyes were dark and warm. She wanted to trust him when he looked at her like that.
She needed to remember that this man was a leader who knew how to compel people to do what he wanted.
She closed her eyes and counted to ten. She truly needed to get Damien alone and make him tell her every last thing she needed to know about being a princess of Nvengaria. Of course, the last time they’d been alone, they’d almost broken the prophecy by making love on the chair at her dressing table.
The vivid sensations of that night returned to her. Desire coiled in her belly. He stood so close to her, his hand gripping her arm, his breath in her ear.
Their backs were to the rest of the room. She turned her head and brushed her lips lightly across his.
The contact nearly undid her. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and let him hold her and soothe her. The assassin had terrified her, and not because he’d tried to kill her, but because he’d tried to kill Damien.
She realized this had not been the first time he’d been so attacked. He’d implied as much to Meagan’s hurried questions, and Sasha and Petri and his guards had known exactly what to do.
Her fright made her want to hold on to Damien and make sure he was all right. But Damien hadn’t been hurt, and neither had she. Sasha had.
Damien’s pupils widened, the black spreading through the blue. He wanted her.
She whispered against his mouth, “I will try, for you.”
She turned, breaking the contact, and went back to Sasha. Meagan had turned around and was staring at her in trepidation. Meagan wanted to believe this all a fairy tale come true, but even she doubted.
Damien waited. Sasha waited. The men of the tavern waited.
Penelope swallowed, her throat dry.
“I will need a bowl of water, pl
ease,” she said to the landlord, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “and some nettles to clean his blood, and lavender if you have it.”
Penelope cured him. Or, at least, Sasha believed she did. Damien watched, both amused and proud, as Penelope washed and dressed Sasha’s wound. She stroked her hands lightly over the man’s back, without maidenly qualms.
Sasha had sighed happily and declared all the pain gone. He’d wanted to walk back to the house himself, but Damien had stopped him. Resting after battle, he said, was the better part of valor.
The landlord fixed Sasha with a room where he could recover. Sasha stayed without fuss, and when he felt better the next day, resumed planning the fete from there.
Damien had taken Penelope aside and kissed her to thank her. She’d looked serene, but also agitated. He didn’t blame her. He’d meant to get her used to being Princess of Nvengaria little by little, but everything wanted to spring on her at once.
Events sprang on her at the fete, as well, until Damien would not have been surprised if she’d caught up a rapier and told him to go back to Nvengaria and leave her alone.
The first event was the Prince Regent.
He arrived in a royal coach, surrounded by at least two score Horse Guards, riding double file and carrying shining swords. He would stay at the Trask home, the largest house in the area, which meant that an entire wing had to be set aside for his use.
Fortunately, the family mostly used the east wing, so the west wing could be made over under Sasha’s careful supervision into chambers fit for the stand-in monarch of England.
Penelope had no idea from where came Damien’s resources, but they’d brought in a huge bed, wall hangings and paintings—some from Carleton House itself—soft chairs large enough to accommodate the prince’s bulk, plates, candlesticks, draperies, footstools, tables, padded benches, dressing tables, and a Bath chair.
Meagan and Penelope watched the proceedings from afar, the Nvengarians letting neither of them get in the way.
“Oh, my,” Meagan said. “Katie Roper never had the Prince Regent staying in her house. I shall be able to crow about this for the longest time.”
Penelope was happy that someone, at least, was getting benefit out of all this mess. The rest of the household was in chaos, Sasha kept beaming at Penelope and coming to touch her hand, Lady Trask shuttled between excitement that royalty would stay in her home, and oh, dear, what about the state of the guest rooms that hadn’t been used in a decade?