“What I mean is, you never would have journeyed here and proposed to me if not for your prophecy,” she said, a little shakily.
“Very likely not.” He nodded once. “Although I like to believe that fate has been driving us together.”
“That would indeed be a fairy story,” she said. “The story you told me, the one about the princess in the tower—she ended not by running off with the handsome stranger from far away, but by staying with the true and trusted friend she’d known all her life. That is the moral of the story, is it not?”
He looked at her with a touch of bewilderment. “It is only a story, Penelope. It has no meaning.”
“All tales have meaning. Usually, ‘Be good and patient, and you shall be rewarded.’”
“In my experience, that never happens.”
She glanced at him. “But it should be true. That is why people tell the stories.”
He slid his hand under her hair again, teasing the curls at her nape. “When people tell our story, they will tell how I traveled many miles and through great peril to find you waiting for me at the end of the journey.” His smile returned. “You made the peril worth every moment.”
“You have a honeyed tongue.”
The smiled turned wicked. “No, but you give me a good idea.”
She blushed. He made his wanting for her so plain.
“We are talking about our marriage of convenience,” she said.
“You like this word, convenience.” He sat down next to her and began to pull off his boots.
“I will be plainer, then. Mr. White wished me to marry him and have his children so that he could ignore me and do as he pleased. I would not do it for him, and I will not do it for you. I refuse to be a wife who is convenient.”
He pulled off his second boot and tossed it aside, then stripped off his stockings and dangled his feet in the pool.
His bare brown calves hung close to her slender ones, wiry black hair curling down his shins and onto his strong feet. They sat side by side, hips and shoulders touching.
It felt shockingly intimate, even more so than when he’d kissed her and touched her in her bedchamber. This was casual, an implication that he had every right to be casual with her.
“Penelope,” he began, his voice holding a dangerous note. “For me to travel three thousand miles in search of a bride is not convenient. It is not convenient to leave my kingdom vulnerable to a scheming Grand Duke, nor is it convenient to scrape and bow to your joke of a Regent so that I may hold England’s support.” He slid his hand to her thigh. “And it is not convenient to find you here like this, knowing that if I take you the way I wish to, my very superstitious Nvengarians will declare the prophecy void, and I will have done all for nothing. No, I do not find this at all convenient.”
She bit her lip. “I did not mean—”
“I will marry you, Penelope. I will do anything to fulfill the prophecy and save my kingdom. I want to do it with soft words, but if I have to throw you over the pommel of my saddle and gallop away with you, I will.”
His hard expression told her he’d do it. When, like now, he dropped his suave and civilized facade, she saw the true man, the one who had survived hunger and pain and darkness and hatred. She had no doubt that if he wanted, he’d sweep her up and gallop away with her, like a nomad from a desert tribe.
“That would be a bit uncomfortable for a three-thousand-mile journey,” she said in a small voice.
“Not for me, love. I could rest my hand on your very fine backside all the way.”
She blushed. “You really should not say things like that.”
“You must grow used to me complimenting your body. Your backside is fine, as are your breasts.” He looked into the water. “And your toes are adorable.”
“Now you have become Prince Charming again.”
His look turned curious. “Is that how you think of me?”
“No, I think of you as exasperating. I do not know what to think of you.”
He twined his bare foot, long and broad, around hers. “Fall in love with me, Penelope.”
She quirked a brow. “Like every other woman across the breadth of Europe?”
His glance turned questioning, and Penelope wanted to slap her hand across her mouth. She’d not meant to admit that she’d heard the shameful conversation of his paramours. A well-bred woman never discussed such matters.
“Think you every woman in Europe in love with me?” he asked. “I assure you, that is not true. I believe my mother loved me, but she died when I was very small.”
“Oh,” she said, deflating. “I am sorry. About your mother, I mean.”
“It was a tragedy. Also very dramatic, Nvengarian style. She climbed upon the gate tower of my father’s castle and shot herself in the head.”
Penelope stared at him in horror.
He glanced out over the water, his tone neutral. “It was her finest moment. My father was evil, but she got her revenge. Instead of quietly poisoning herself and letting the incident be swept under the carpets, she stood up on a moonlit night in full view of the city, and announced to the world exactly what my father had done to her. She showed the truth of what he was, a madman to fear and hate.” He stirred the water with his foot. “At the time, I was very angry at her for leaving me alone, but I understand now that she had to do it. Her death was her only weapon against him, and she used it well.” He fell silent a moment. “I do not know why I tell you these things. I never speak of them to anyone.”
“Damien.” Her voice held anguish.
He smiled. “Do not feel sorry for me, Penelope. My childhood is behind me. My life is much better now.”
“With men trying to kill you right and left?”
“A few dodged knives is nothing compared to the barbs of my father, love.”
He chuckled as though he’d told her a reassuring story. Penelope traced the sinews on the back of his hand. The scars that crisscrossed his skin spoke more clearly than words of the harshness of his life.
“It is better now,” he repeated, “because I have found you.”
Flattery again. His eyes had gone dark, and his head dipped toward hers as though he was ready to kiss her.
“You are asking me to leave behind everything I have ever known,” she said desperately. “You wish me to ride off into the wilderness with you on the strength of a silver ring and Sasha’s prophecy.”
“I know.” He smoothed her cheek. “And you are brave enough and strong enough to do it. You have the heart of a lion.”
“I have not.”
He nuzzled her, his breath warm on her skin. “You could face down the entire Council of Dukes and Alexander himself. You could have even faced down my father.”
“The man who put you into a dungeon?” She stopped. “I am very angry at him for that, you know.”
“You see? You have fight in you, Penelope. You will make a fine princess. Nvengarians love a woman with fight.”
“I have never fought anyone in my life,” she protested.
He shrugged. “I wonder what it must have been to jilt your Mr. Reuben White in the face of all the world. The English are not kind to a woman who decides to send a man away. They believe she should swallow what the gentleman does so that she may have a husband and a name. In Nvengaria, we admire a woman who takes a knife to a cheating betrothed.”
She blanched. “I would never do that.”
“No, you are civilized, and English. It took much courage for you to defy Mr. White and your mother and father, and the entire English ton, did it not?”
She nodded, remembering the pleading arguments from her mother, the cool anger of her father, the outrage of Reuben, who threatened to sue for breach of contract, the stares and whispers when she went out in public, the label of jilt.
But she could not have sold herself to a life of misery. She had dried her tears and gone on, pretending she was not in pain. Shortly afterward, her father had died, and the grief of that, coupled with the l
ack of funds to keep them in London, had forced her to think about other things.
“It was difficult,” she said.
“You understate it, I believe. Yet, you did it. You defied them. A lesser woman would have accepted her lot and married him.”
“You wish me to accept my lot with you.”
He chuckled, a warm sound. “Penelope, you are a fine one at debate. As I said, you will defy the Council of Dukes.”
He slid off his coat and laid it carefully on the bank. Next he untied his cravat, unwound it from his neck, and folded it over his coat. He began to unbutton his waistcoat, tanned fingers deft and sure on the buttons.
Penelope’s gaze riveted to him as he shrugged off the waistcoat. Beneath his London-tailored clothes, he had the body of a warrior. No wonder the Regent regarded him with jealousy.
He stripped off his shirt. His torso, brown with sun, was tight and strong, muscles moving under the skin with animal grace. Black curls dusted his chest, spreading across his pectorals, thinning where his flat, male nipples lay brown-red again his skin. His arms were large with muscle, round and hard biceps tapering to hollows on the insides of his elbows.
Black hair twined his broad forearms, his skin there even more tanned, the part of his body that saw the most sun. She had never seen a man completely bare-chested before, and she found that she wanted to look at him, to explore with her gaze what he was.
She wanted to touch, too. She imagined her pale fingers on the brown flesh, tracing collarbone and hollow of throat, the damp skin over his Adam’s apple. She’d move down to feather the indent between his pectorals, letting his dark curls of hair twist round her fingertips. Then to his brown nipples, drawing them lightly between her fingers, discovering whether they felt like her own or different.
She flicked her gaze to his face, knowing her eyes would betray her hunger, but not knowing how to hide it. She traced the sharp line of his jaw, the black curled hair that trailed behind his ears to his bare, strong neck. He smelled of sweat and salt, and she wondered if he’d taste of salt if she trailed her tongue across his throat.
He smiled at her, his lips moving slowly, as though he knew she wanted to taste him and liked it.
He lifted himself on the log, balancing on flat hands, arms tightening, and, before she could speak, he slid down into the water.
The pool was deep. Damien dove into the cool depths, the water heavenly after the warm summer sun.
His arousal was screaming at him. Damn, but he wanted her. Finding her here with her skirts rucked to her knees, her bare legs dangling, her toes tracing languid circles in the water, had made him hard as a rock.
He’d argued with her to keep his mind off her beddable body, but to no use. Thank God the water was cold.
He surfaced, and shook water from his hair. She was watching him, eyes round. “What are you doing?”
“Swimming.”
“What about assassins?” She peered about her worriedly.
“I have men stationed along the hill and river to watch.”
Penelope hastily pulled her dress over her legs. “Good heavens. You might have warned me.”
“My men are trained to look without looking,” he said. “Does it make sense in English?”
“I suppose,” she said.
He laughed. She was so pretty with the sun on her hair, her lip drawn down in confusion. He wanted to kiss her and kiss her. He wanted to hold her against him in the water, to lift her dress and settle her on his very needy erection.
He swam across the pool, then dove again, reveling in the soothing water. He surfaced, right at her feet.
She looked at him in surprise. Slanting her a wicked grin, he lifted her bare, clean toes and drew one into his mouth.
He expected her to gasp and pull away, but she stretched out her foot, leaning back on her elbows, her eyelids heavy. She’d look so in bed, he imagined, lying back and waiting for him, lips parted.
He nibbled the toe, then suckled it, loving the taste of the water and her skin. Her posture pressed her breasts against her thin gown, her nipples tiny points against the fabric.
He’d never seen such a sensuous woman. Hers was a natural sensuality, free from the artifice of court women, closer to the wild beauty of the women of his own country.
He kissed her toes, one at a time, then lifted the other foot and did the same.
She watched him, smiling slightly, the hem of her dress dangling in the water. His hardness grew unbearably tight.
“I want to see you,” he said.
He held each small foot in his palms. Gently he pulled her legs apart, the loose skirt sliding to her knees. Her chest rose with quickened breath.
He stepped between her legs, turning his head to lick droplets of water from her calf. The salt taste of her skin made his blood hotter still. He slid the skirt upward, dipping his tongue behind her knee.
She gasped. He expected her to pull away, perhaps to kick water into his face, but she remained still. The pulse in the fold of her knee beat faster.
“I want to see you,” he said again.
She had every right to refuse him and send him away. They were not yet betrothed. Even in Nvengaria, an unmarried woman would admonish a man for making improper advances, unless she wanted them, of course.
Slowly Penelope reached down, and with slow fingers, drew her skirt up to bare her thighs.
Damien exhaled. Her lovely legs stretched to him, long and just a little plump. He kissed her thigh above her knee, and drew his tongue all the way along it to the shadow under her skirt.
She stiffened, but did not pull away. He spread her legs wider, palms resting on each thigh. He watched her fingers close on the cloth, and then, as his heartbeat soared, she pulled the skirt the rest of the way up.
A thread of sweet curls swirled over her mound and twisted along her opening. His arousal strained toward her, knowing where it wanted to go. He dragged in a breath.
“Penelope, I have not the words in English to say how beautiful you are.”
She said nothing. Her face was rosy pink, her greengold eyes fixed on him as though she worried what he thought of her.
He braced his hands on either side of her opening, and pushed her still wider. He let his thumbs come together in the middle, stroking down over her mound.
She gasped, eyes widening. He was, without a doubt, the first person to ever touch her there. Her honey flowed onto his hands, sweet and warm.
“Penelope, do you know what release is?”
“No,” she whispered.
“You have never touched yourself? Felt the release of it?”
“Never.”
Surprising. The ladies of London and Paris liked to tell him at length how much they enjoyed themselves alone in their beds. So much so that at times, he left them to it while he sought a tavern to enjoy ale and conversation.
From the look on Penelope’s face, the thought had never occurred to her.
“I will teach you what it feels like,” he said.
Her gaze locked with his, as though she was afraid to look away. Her lips parted, moist and red.
He could touch and taste her all he wanted, as long as he didn’t ram his greedy hardness straight into her. Being inside her might negate the prophecy, but staying outside would not.
He rubbed her mound again, loving the hot folds that wanted to close over his thumbs. He lifted his hand and licked her moisture from it, spicy, salty desire.
She put out her hand in protest. “Damien, your bodyguards.”
“Cannot see a thing.”
They had been trained to look out for danger but to give him his privacy. Life did not go well for a bodyguard who did not. Some of them were left over from his father’s rule, fanatically devoted to the Imperial Prince, whoever he happened to be. They would not ogle her; they’d be more worried about her trying to harm him.
They would have to learn that Penelope was on his side, an extension of him, not his enemy. She had been made for hi
m. He tasted her on his skin and felt her become part of him.
He stroked her again, letting his fingers nudge a little inside of her. She closed her eyes, one hand threading his hair.
“That is the way, my love,” he whispered. “Feel the joy of it.”
She arched toward him, wanting him. He draped her legs over his shoulders, and lowered his mouth to her.
Sweet, hot, fiery taste. He loved her gasp of startled pleasure, and the deeper moan that followed it. Lovely innocent, feeling for the first time. She was his, and no other man’s. The fervent possessiveness of his people welled up inside him, and he didn’t bother to control it.
Her scent surrounded him, her taste drove him wild. He suckled her, earning small cries of pleasure while her hips rocked forward. She wanted him with the same mindlessness with which he wanted her.
Unlike when they’d been in her bedchamber, though, he knew he could control himself. For now. Then, a dark need had swept through him, as though a force from outside had taken over his thoughts. This time, he could fully enjoy her without the crazed clutch on his mind.
He flicked his tongue over her beautiful mound, faster and faster, smiling as she jerked and moaned. She twisted her hand in his hair, but he ignored the pain. She was ready, ripe for it. Beautiful, beautiful woman.
She dragged in a long breath, and then she came, her first surprised cries ringing out to the quiet rush of the river.
Damien grasped her hips and dragged her down into the water with him. His mouth landed hard on hers, taking her screams of delight into him. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, clinging to him, positioning her needing opening directly over his arousal.
He rocked his hips, loving the friction, while he kissed her. He drove his tongue in deep, pressing her, making her taste him as much as he tasted her. Her nails bit his skin, sharp points digging into his back.
Eventually, her cries lessened, her frantic hands stilled, and at last, she eased her lips from his. She regarded him languidly, her lips swollen, a woman first awakened to the wild feelings inside her.
“Did I have a fit?” she asked, breathless.
He smoothed her hair and kissed the corner of her mouth. “That was release. Do you understand now why we crave it so?”