She nodded. “It was most strange.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
Her eyes widened a little. “I can do that again?”
“As many times as you want, vixen.”
“As many times?” She drew a breath. “I do not know if I can. I feel quite exhausted. And at the same time…”
“You feel, as you say, exhilarated?”
“Yes. Exhilarated.” She lay her head on his shoulder. “Do you feel the same?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“I will feel it on our betrothal night. I will teach you how to bring me to release.”
“I see.” She looked shy and fetching.
“We will use that night to learn one another,” he said, trying to stifle his anticipation. “That is what the betrothal ritual is for. To show the world that we will be bound in marriage, and to learn to pleasure each other’s bodies. After that night, we will have no fear of the carnal pleasures we will seek in our marriage.”
She smiled into his shoulder. “That sounds much different from English marriage.”
“Nvengarian husbands enjoy making certain that their wives are pleased in bed, and they invent many and varied ways to do it. Do English husbands not do this?”
“I have not heard so. But my married acquaintances tell me very little.” She sounded frustrated.
“Do not worry. I will tell you everything you need to know.”
She lifted her head and smiled at him, eyes starry, then she suddenly realized that he’d pulled her into the pool and they were up to their shoulders in water.
“Damien, my dress!” she gasped.
“Take it off.” He scooped her against him and began unfastening the hooks in the back.
She did not protest much as he helped her untangle her arms from the gown and pull it from her legs. He lifted it from the water and laid it across the log, where it hung, deflated and wrinkled with water.
She wore no stays under the light summer gown. Her shift molded to her body, the tips of her breasts dark and large. The wet cotton clinging to her was almost more erotic than if she’d been bare.
He lifted her again, hands under her buttocks, the water making her buoyant. Her wet lips roved his as she wrapped her legs around him again; she was no longer shy about kissing him. “I love you,” he said.
Her eyes were heavy, face flushed with heat. “Say it in Nvengarian. I want to learn.”
He smiled. “We say amor. Like the French, you see? For I love you, it is amor dem.”
She smoothed his wet hair from his forehead. “Amor dem.”
He laughed. “No, that is for a woman. To say it to me, you would say amor das.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do so hate conjugation. My French tutor always laughed at me.”
“It is English that is confusing. With no gender. Saying the same thing to a woman or to a man sounds very strange to us. As though you are hermaphrodites.”
She laughed, a sound like sweet chimes. “I never thought of it like that.”
He waited. Her laughter faded. She studied his face, as though memorizing it. “Damien.” She brushed her finger down the bridge of his nose and over his lips. “Amor das.”
“I love you, too, Penelope.”
She did not ask again if he truly did. She traced the outline of his face, her eyes intent. “How do you say, I want you?”
He brought his lips close to hers. “You would say to a lover, gushan das.”
“Oh.” She kissed him lightly.
He smiled. “Will you say it?”
“You already know I want you.”
“Yes.” He was going to take her to bed and love her for days.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “If I were cruel,” she said softly, “I would ask you to make love to me now, and so break the prophecy.” She lifted her head. “Then I would not have to go with you to Nvengaria.”
He pretended to consider the strategy. “True. But it would not work.”
“Why not?”
She sounded offended. He laughed. “Because I am in love with you. I will marry you and take you home with me, prophecy or no prophecy.”
“You are giving me no choice.”
“You have a choice.” He tightened his arms around her. “Your choice is to come with me willingly, or to come with me unwillingly. I can imagine entertaining possibilities in both directions.”
She looked puzzled. “Why would it entertain you if I was unwilling?”
His entire body throbbed. “Because then I could have the joy of taming you. If I must throw you over my pommel and ride off with you, you will learn my true nature. The one that tells me you are mine, and I will teach you to be so.”
Her eyes widened. The idea frightened her, but not entirely.
He ran his fingertips down her spine. “I can think of many ways to train you to be mine. In fact, I somewhat hope you will be unwilling.”
“Ways?”
“Yes.” He ran his hand up to encircle her wrist. “Bind your pretty hands. Not release you until you did my bidding.”
She moved a little in his arms, brushing his aching groin. “How could I do your bidding with my hands tied?”
“Now that, my love, I will have to teach you when I have you in my bed.”
She would be naked, her hair down, and she’d squirm against her bonds. She’d look up at him and ask him, in faint trepidation, what he wanted her to do.
The vision was compelling. He gritted his teeth. Penelope was driving him over the brink, but he was so enjoying the fall.
“You are a dangerous one,” he said. “But remember, whether I compromise you too soon or no, I will take you home with me.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he kissed her before she could say a word. She got lost in the kiss, her body grasping what it was supposed to do.
He thought of the way she’d said in his own tongue that she loved him. He also liked the way her tongue moved in his mouth. He would teach her more Nvengarian, every naughty phrase she could repeat to him when they were in bed on long winter nights. And short summer nights. And all the nights in between.
He deepened the kiss, feeling her fingertips on the scratches she’d put on his back. Yes, this mating would be fierce indeed.
Up on the hill, three female figures emerged at the top of the path.
“It is the most cunning pool, Countess, my lady.” Meagan Tavistock’s voice floated to them.
He knew the women, one the Russian he’d been with when Misk had brought him his father’s ring. The other was English, a baroness who had a fetish for sleeping with foreign nobility. She collected them, she bragged.
Penelope gasped. He thought she’d fling herself from his arms, but after one startled look upward, she suddenly pressed her mouth to his and kissed him with all her might.
He wanted to laugh, but he let her kiss him. He’d known that she’d discover things he’d done before he’d become the Imperial Prince. The ladies the Regent had brought with him were not known for keeping secrets.
This was her defiance, then. Let them see.
He held her tightly and kissed her back with enthusiasm.
He heard Meagan’s gasp. “Oh, heavens. Oh, my. Oh, dear. I do believe it’s Miss Trask and the prince.”
More brush crackled as the three turned and hurried back to the path. Meagan’s voice floated back to them, swelling with triumph. “Well, they are going to be married. A grand romance, is it not?”
Later, Penelope trotted downstairs in the house, her hand skimming the stair rail. She’d dried herself and changed her clothes, damp and refreshed from her impromptu swim with Damien. She’d put on a clean gown and brushed her hair, fastening it in a long tail to let it dry.
Damien had gotten Penelope back to the house, both of them sneaking in like naughty children in their wet clothes. She, who never giggled, hadn’t been able to stop. Damien had had to kiss her to keep her quiet.
<
br /> She felt strange, tired and yet rested, her body trying to grow used to the new feelings Damien had invoked. She’d never known, until he put his mouth on her, what wild thoughts could fly through her mind, and how excited and flushed and wonderful her body could feel. When his tongue pressed into her, she’d thought madness had overtaken her.
The intensity of what her body could experience frightened her a little, but at the same time, she longed to feel it again.
As she stepped off the last stair, her thoughts still far away, Petri, Damien’s valet, emerged from the sitting room and stopped in front of her.
“Highness,” Petri said. “I speak to you, yes?”
Petri did not know as much English as Damien or Sasha, or even the footmen Rufus and Miles. His lack of English had not stopped him from making conquests of several of the Trask maids, if all she heard was correct. She hadn’t the heart to scold the girls since Petri’s master was busy weaving his spell around Penelope.
“Yes,” Penelope said to Petri, nodding. “I mean, of course.”
“Please to come,” he said, bowing and gesturing to the sitting room.
The chamber was mercifully empty, the guests still reveling at the fete. They would be for most of the night, Damien having promised a feast, a bonfire, and fireworks.
Petri waited patiently in the middle of the room. A tray with a coffeepot, cup, and honey waited on a table, as though he’d prepared carefully for this conversation.
The enigmatic valet complemented Damien well. They were the same age and possessed roughly the same looks. Petri had black hair, clear blue eyes, and a brutal handsomeness that was wreaking havoc below stairs. Damien had the same brutal handsomeness, but one controlled and contained, like a honed sword, to serve his needs.
Petri’s attractiveness was unstudied and raw. He had no need to be cultivated, unlike his master.
He gestured Penelope to a chair, and she sat. Like the good valet he was, he fetched her a footstool, then carefully poured coffee and added the exact amount of honey Penelope liked.
“Thank you.” She accepted the cup and sipped. He nodded and gave a grunt, as though he did not know the words for “you’re welcome.”
She politely gestured to the chair facing her, but he refused it, and stood, his hands behind his back in a military stance. “My English,” he said, “is not so good, I am sorry.”
“That is all right,” Penelope said. “Take your time.”
Petri studied her coffee cup and then the tray, then drew a breath as though what he had to say would condemn him, but he had to say it anyway.
“You marry Damien, yes?”
She shook her head slightly. “I have not decided.”
He leaned forward, his blue eyes piercing. “No. You marry him.”
“Petri…”
He held up his hands, made a curt gesture. “You marry him. If no, die.”
She started. Did he mean to make a threat, or was he simply struggling with English? “What do you mean?”
He frowned in frustration. “I have not the way to say.”
“We can send for Sasha if you like. He speaks English well.”
“No,” Petri said harshly. She thumped back into the chair. “No Sasha.”
“Oh.” She grew nervous. Violence lingered close to the surface in all of Damien’s Nvengarians. She’d witnessed that in their exhibitions of wrestling and sword play. She’d seen that Damien trusted Petri more than he’d trust a brother, but would Petri have the same loyalty to her?
Petri motioned for her to stay in the chair, nodding as though to reassure her. He crossed to the door, opened it, and called out into the hall, “Rufus!”
After a few moments, one of the tall footmen who followed Damien about like dogs appeared. He and Petri spoke rapidly and quietly in Nvengarian. Rufus looked past Petri at Penelope waiting, then he came into the room. Petri closed the door.
Rufus bowed to her. “I help Petri speak English.” He looked proud and slightly superior that Petri needed his help.
Petri said something else in Nvengarian. Rufus bowed at Penelope again. “He says he wants you to know. If you do not marry Prince Damien, he will die.”
Something jumped inside her, as though he told her something she’d already been aware of but had refused to acknowledge. “What?”
“It is the prophecy,” Rufus said apologetically. “The prince must fulfill it or die. So if you do not marry, if you do not become the princess…” He trailed off, giving a little shrug as though he could not help what happened next.
Penelope’s mouth went dry. “It is only a prophecy. Just words.”
Rufus and Petri looked at each other. Rufus said a few words in Nvengarian, and Petri shook his head. “You understand not,” Petri said.
“I know that you and Sasha believe in the prophecy,” she tried, “and Damien believes in it, too, even though he claims he does not.”
Rufus scratched his head as he translated for Petri. Petri gave a harsh laugh.
It was frustrating having a conversation in this fashion. She waited impatiently for the two to talk and for Rufus to translate back into English.
“Petri does not believe in prophecies, or magic, either,” Rufus said at last. “I do, but Petri has had harsh life. No, he says the prophecy does not kill Damien. The Grand Duke does.”
She gripped the arms of the chair. “Who?”
“Grand Duke Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien, head of Council of Dukes.”
She remembered Damien mentioning the name Alexander, though she hadn’t been certain who he meant. “This grand duke sent the assassin?”
Rufus nodded. He snarled something in Nvengarian, then said, “He is evil man.”
Petri agreed, his scowl dark.
Rufus said, “If Prince Damien returns without princess, then no prophecy. No prophecy, then…” He broke off as though groping for a word.
“What?” Penelope put her hand to her throat. Damien had said nothing of this. He’d gone on about rings and love and being drawn together, and said nothing about dying if he did not bring her to Nvengaria.
Rufus beckoned to Petri. “Like this,” Rufus said.
Rufus mimed tying a blindfold around Petri’s eyes, then stood him against a wall. Petri waited, calm and still. Rufus picked up a tall silver candlestick and shouldered it like a rifle.
He grunted as he jerked into the perfect mime of ready, aim, fire. An explosive sound came from his mouth as his imaginary gun went off, right at Petri’s chest.
Penelope rose from her chair, hands to her face. “Dear God. You mean he will be executed.”
Rufus brightened. “Yes, that is word. Executed.”
Chapter Twelve
Penelope froze in place while the room whirled around her. She saw not Petri against the wall, but Damien, waiting stoically while blue-coated Nvengarian soldiers raised rifles and fired a volley of bullets into his body.
She heard the roar of the guns and smelled the acrid stink of gunpowder and the iron bite of blood. Damien’s blood.
Her knees gave. The floor rushed up at her, and then she suddenly found herself supported by the strong arms of a concerned Petri, who barked an order at Rufus. Rufus, alarmed, got rid of the candlestick and found brandy.
Petri made her drink it, pressing the glass to her lips himself. His handsome face, faintly scarred, hovering close to hers, held worry.
The bite of the brandy made the room stop spinning. Penelope drew a long breath. “Thank you for telling me, Petri,” she whispered.
Rufus translated, though Petri had gotten the gist. He grunted.
His blue eyes held relief but also grim determination. He was a servant, but he cared for Damien, she could see that. He’d do anything, she sensed, to save his master’s life, including tie her up and drag her to Nvengaria to marry his prince if he had to.
They heard a step, and all three looked up as Damien entered the room.
Damien’s light mood evaporated when he saw
Penelope surrounded by Petri and Rufus, who seemed to be ministering to her. Penelope’s face was white, her eyes enormous. Ringlets of damp hair straggled across her face, making his blood burn.
He regarded the tableau with narrowed eyes. Rufus looked guilt-stricken, Petri defiant. Penelope rose slowly, never taking her gaze from him. She moved to him as though dazed, and not until she put her fingers out to touch his arm did she blink.
“Damien,” she breathed.
They’d told her.
“Petri,” he growled in Nvengarian, “I will boil you in your own blood for this.”
“She deserved to know, sir.” Petri’s back was straight, his eyes steady. “She needs to marry you. I know you will go back with or without her, and I can’t let you go back without her.”
“Do not blame him,” Penelope said quickly. “I do not know what he is saying, but it is not his fault. It is yours for not telling me the truth.” She glared, her beautiful eyes shining with anger.
“Do not defend him,” Damien said. “I told him to keep his mouth shut.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Damien saw Rufus trying to sidle away. He pointed at him. “I will deal with you later.” To Penelope he said, “I want your decision to be a true one. I want you to marry me because it is your choice.”
Her cheeks grew pink. “You said you’d carry me off if I said no.”
“Still I might,” he said. “But I wish it to be a true choice from you. Your decision should not be based on a threat to my life.”
“Damien, I cannot let you die.” Her eyes flashed again, her face still more beautiful for her anger. “How did you think I’d feel when I learned that my decision sent you to your death? That I’d condemned you because I worried that you will ignore me after we marry? No matter how much you ignore me, I will not let this Grand Duke execute you.”
“How could I ignore you?” Damien asked, incredulous. “I have thought of nothing but you since I arrived, and I will likely do so for the rest of my life.”
He would likely be permanently aroused with her. Even now, thoughts rose unbidden of Penelope in the river with her wet chemise clinging to her body, her dark aureoles pressing the fabric, every curve of her outlined for his hands.