Rufus and Miles, the experts on country taverns, nodded.
Rufus and Miles had discovered that the best thing about world travel was beer. From Bucharest to Austria to the Low Countries to England, no matter what language the natives spoke, the two young men could make understood the words “tavern” and “beer.”
Now they stood to attention on each side of the inn’s door while Damien ducked inside. Sasha followed, then the two footmen brought up the rear.
Damien found a typical English tavern, low-ceilinged with a smoking fireplace, settles along the walls, and tables bowed from years of use. On this warm afternoon, the room was mostly empty, as farmers were still in their fields and villagers worked at their trade.
The benches were half-filled with older men, grizzledhaired grandfathers taking refuge in a pint of ale and banter with friends. As Damien entered, every man lifted his head and stared.
Damien had been in English country taverns before. But on those journeys he’d been alone. The locals had looked him over, then stoically accepted him as another traveler. He’d never before entered a tavern with his entourage.
The patrons studied Rufus and Miles and Sasha and Damien. The silence grew hostile.
Sasha looked back at them, aghast. “On your feet,” he cried, “for the most Imperial Prince Damien Augustus Frederic Michel of Nvengaria.”
The landlord, who’d come forward at their entrance, stopped in his tracks. Someone snorted. Dark mutters began.
“Why do they not stand?” Sasha hissed to Damien in Nvengarian. “Why do these peasants not bow?”
Sasha liked people to bow. In palaces across Europe, Prince Damien was greeted with bows and curtsies and, at times, downright groveling. But then, Damien was handsome and rich and well liked. He was known for his generosity; plus, he was a crack shot, an athletic rider, and reputed to be one of the best lovers in Europe.
He was admired for his handsome body, his intelligence, his energy, and his interest in everything from new inventions to pretty tavern wenches. Good times were never far behind whenever Damien of Nvengaria visited.
But this time, once they’d reached England, Damien had traveled incognito, or as incognito as Sasha would let him. Sasha loved pageantry and was dismayed whenever people did not recognize Damien.
But then, poor Sasha had been locked in a dungeon for fifteen years. He’d dared to defend Damien once upon a time, and Damien’s father hadn’t liked that. Damien, who’d likewise been locked in a dungeon and knew how it felt, indulged Sasha whenever he could.
“They are not peasants,” he told Sasha now. “If you call an English farmer a peasant, he will skewer your balls on his pitchfork.”
The smaller man whitened. “Truly?”
Damien looked back at the hostile faces. He smiled. “Rufus, remind me of that magic phrase, will you?”
Rufus grinned. He drew himself up and said in his thickly accented English, “Drinks for everyone.”
Men shifted. The air thawed. Damien announced to the landlord, “Your best ale for every man in the room.”
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pouch that clinked. The landlord and patrons suddenly grinned.
An hour later, the place had been transformed. Rufus and Miles played a loud game of dice in the corner with three of the locals. Damien’s coachman stood in the doorway, one eye on the carriage, one on the comely barmaid who brought him ale.
Sasha was immersed in a crowd of half-drunk listeners while he tried to explain in his accented English the entire history of Nvengaria.
Damien drew the largest group with his warm smile and store of off-color stories. The men of Little Marching laughed and slapped each other on their backs. The ale kept coming.
The commotion attracted the attention of the other villagers. The butcher and the blacksmith shed aprons and shut up shop to join the throng. A few farmers drifted in from their fields. Boys came to ogle Damien’s coach and riding horse, and women peered into the tavern to ogle Damien. The landlord’s daughter gave him sly looks from under her lashes.
But Damien had not come for a dalliance. He had a task to complete before Midsummer’s Day, or all would be lost. He turned to his fifteen new best friends and asked, “Tell me, is there a house called Ashborn Manor nearby?”
He got fifteen garbled answers, but most agreed that he should ride out of town to the north a mile or so.
He rose, remarkably steady on his feet, and made them all a courtly bow. The villagers scrambled to rise and bow back, with varying degrees of success.
Damien returned the bows and strolled out of the tavern. The villagers shouted their good-byes.
“Wait, my friends,” Rufus slurred from inside the tavern. “Before I go, I teach you Nvengarian dance.”
The tavern roared with laughter, then the clapping began.
The black horse shook its head and snorted as Damien approached.
“A little longer, my friend,” Damien murmured, stroking him. “And you can go home.” They both could.
Damien untied the stallion from the carriage, mounted, and rode off to the north.
“What on earth are they doing?” Meagan asked.
Meagan and Penelope paused on the road that wound down the hill and into the village. A strange carriage with horses sporting purple plumes stood in the street in front of the tavern below. A line of men were issuing from the door of the tavern, their hands on each others’ waists. Occasionally, they’d wave their arms or kick their feet, making an odd chanting sound.
A few of the women who’d been peeking into the tavern were swept into the line. Other villagers, including the vicar, came out of their houses to watch.
“Should we go down?” Meagan asked worriedly.
“I am not certain.”
They were distracted from the dancing villagers by the sound of hoofbeats on a curve of the road hidden by a stand of trees. A man on a black horse came suddenly around the curve, riding straight toward them.
The horse was one of the finest Penelope had ever seen. Her father’s love of horses had taught her to appreciate good horseflesh. She saw that this one had every conformation point in balance, a sheen to its black coat, and a rippling midnight tail.
The man on its back was also the finest she’d ever seen. He was taller than any she knew, including Meagan’s father. The stranger had wide shoulders and a broad chest, yet he rode well for a large man, moving in perfect time with his horse.
Tight trousers, Meagan had said. This man wore duncolored breeches that molded to his limbs. Black boots hugged muscular calves, and his hair, black as his horse’s, gleamed in the sunlight. His face was square, his skin bronzed. A black frock coat emphasized the powerful build of his shoulders and the tapered tautness of his abdomen, the tails sweeping back to reveal narrow hips.
“Oh, my,” Meagan said. “Oh my, oh my, oh my.”
Penelope’s heart beat in strange, thick strokes, as though something had taken hold of her body and squeezed it tight. Time seemed to slow, sound and vision melting like hot glass.
The horse was upon them. Penelope knew she should move, but she was frozen in place. Meagan, timid of horses, lifted her skirts and scurried to the side of the road.
At the last minute, the man stopped the horse, pulling it to a skidding halt two steps from Penelope. A puff of dust rose from its hooves, and the horse tossed its head, bathing Penelope in a warm whuff of breath.
The man turned the beast, a movement that put his firm thigh and leather boot right in front of Penelope. She found her gaze riveted to the line of muscle of his bent knee, the supple folds of the boot around his ankle.
She forced her eyes upward. The man had a face of raw handsomeness, tanned as though he’d spent much time out of doors. It was a square face, cheekbones high and masculine, with a fine shadow of unshaven beard along his jaw. He wore gloves, expensive gloves, if she were any judge, over large and powerful hands.
She suddenly wondered what those hands would
feel like on her body.
She went rigid with shock, wondering why she’d suddenly wondered such a thing. And yet…
The man looked down at her with eyes of intense blue, and smiled.
Penelope’s knees went weak. This man knew how to smile. He did not merely lift his lips, he put every ounce of sincerity into it. He could make anyone on the receiving end of that smile happy she’d climbed out of bed in the morning. A girl would get up extra early if she thought she’d have a chance of seeing him smile like that.
Even better if he smiled from the pillow next to her.
Penelope jerked her thoughts from that treacherous place. The thoughts had come unbidden, and yet she could not stop them flooding her mind. His large hands in her hair, his smile as he leaned over her in the dark, his kisses on her lips, his voice whispering her name.
She shivered, hard, and the visions dissolved. But threads of them lingered, leaving her body hot and tight.
Meagan had crept forward to peer over Penelope’s shoulder. “Who is he?”
Penelope had no idea. She’d spent three seasons in London and had never seen anything like him. She’d have remembered him.
And yet, she suddenly had the strangest feeling she did know him. Some thought deep inside her mind clicked, as though it were, well, satisfied.
The man bowed from the waist. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
His voice was low and rich, his English just accented enough to send another shiver down Penelope’s spine.
“Oh,” Meagan breathed happily. “He’s foreign.”
“Meagan, do not be impolite,” Penelope said, her own voice strangled.
“‘Tisn’t impolite. It is a fact.”
The man’s smile widened. Both girls heaved a little sigh.
“Do you know a house called Ashborn Manor?” he asked.
“Of course we do,” Meagan answered brightly. “We’ve just come from there.” She pointed. “It is that way.”
“Excellent.” He sounded as though her answer was the most important news in the world to him. “Will you show me?”
Panic worked its way into Penelope’s throat. “We do not know you, sir,” she began, but at the same time Meagan said, “Of course.”
He chuckled as they glared at each other. His laughter was a low, silken sound. “I wish to reach the house before my entourage finds me. Will you ride with me?”
He looked straight at Penelope. Or maybe he did not. Meagan was standing nearly on top of her.
“You must, Penelope.” Meagan giggled. “I am afraid of horses.”
Meagan stepped away, leaving Penelope alone in front of the large horse and the man’s devastating smile.
He held out his hand. “Please. I would be most grateful.”
He bent a little in the saddle, stretching his hand to her. Ride away with me, his eyes said. Just for a little while.
Against her wishes, Penelope imagined sitting on the horse with him, his strong arms surrounding her and keeping her safe. They would canter off to lands unknown, and he’d feed her strawberries, following them with kisses as gentle as snowflakes.
Her vision took them to a meadow, where she’d lie on the grass and he’d loosen her bodice, leaning to kiss her bared shoulder.
She gasped, stunned by the thoughts that kept invading her mind. His blue eyes twinkled as though he’d put the thoughts into her head himself, and knew what they did there.
Meagan was saying, “He is quite courteous. I vow, Pen, I do not know how you can refuse when he puts it so nicely.”
“Because we do not know him,” Penelope said weakly.
“Oh, Penny, where is the harm?”
Penelope took a deep breath. “I still don’t think—”
Meagan grabbed her sleeve, dragged her a few steps away, and began whispering furiously. “If you do not wish to make his acquaintance, you are plain mad. He is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen in my life, and he’s obviously rich—and foreign. We should show him that English people are hospitable, should we not?”
“Yes, but—”
Meagan did not give her a chance. “Think upon this, Pen. He’s bent upon visiting the house. Right now. What do you think is happening up there? Right now?”
They shared a look.
As one, they turned back to the waiting man.
“Very well,” Penelope answered, voice shaking. “I will ride with you.”
“Excellent,” he said again. When he said the word in that voice, she wanted to believe it.
She handed Meagan her basket, closed her fingers around his outstretched hand, and lifted her foot to rest on his boot. He pulled her upward, his strength taking all the strain. He settled her easily before him, and as in her fantasy, closed his arms around her.
“We shall see you there,” the man called down to Meagan.
Meagan settled Penelope’s basket, smiled, and waved good-bye, as the man turned the horse and started up the road for Ashborn Manor.
Treacherous girl.
Chapter Three
“How far is it?” he asked in Penelope’s ear.
His breath was warm. He smelled of the outdoors and the tang of ale and a sharp, male scent. Strong arms encircled her, holding her steady at the same time he made her heart beat extra fast. She was also very aware that her buttocks and hips pressed firmly into the spread of his thighs.
“Half a mile by road,” she stammered.
“Closer over the fields?”
“Um, yes.”
“Excellent.”
He liked the word. He spurred his horse into a canter and plunged off the road. The horse soared under them, then landed hard, but the man caught her before she could slide away.
“Do not worry,” he said. “I will never let you go.”
Her heart thrilled, though she knew he must not mean the words the way she wanted him to. His command of English was not faultless; doubtless he only meant that he would hold her safely.
“I do not even know who you are,” she said over the wind and thumping hoofbeats.
“Call me Damien,” he said. “It is easier.”
Easier than what? she wanted to ask, but she had to save her breath for the ride. She held double handfuls of the horse’s silken mane, and Damien hung on to her.
She’d never been this close to a man before. Even dancing the waltz with Reuben had not brought her into this much contact with another man’s body. Damien’s broad chest was hard against her back, and he held the reins low, almost in her lap, gloved hands steady. The gloves were finely made, as she’d suspected, probably in Bond Street in London. They stretched over his fingers like a second skin, outlining the sinewy strength of them.
His skin was darker than an Englishman’s, but tiny white patches creased the corners of his eyes, and fine lines brushed his skin there. He had a strong jaw and a square chin dusted with bristles, as though he’d not been able to shave that morning. His smile was warm, but he looked as though he could be fierce, and had been, when necessary.
He caught her scrutiny and his smile widened. “What is your name?”
For one awful moment, she could not remember.
“Penelope,” she blurted.
“Penelope.” He repeated it as though he liked the taste in his mouth. He lingered over each warm syllable. “Penelope. Like Odysseus’s wife.”
“Yes. Only I cannot weave.”
He laughed. His eyes crinkled when he did, and her blood warmed to furnace temperatures.
“I should not have told you that,” she said.
“That you cannot weave? Why should this trouble me?”
“I mean my name. We have not been introduced. You should not even know my Christian name, let alone speak it.”
He chuckled, his chest rumbling. “But I am carrying you off. Why can I not speak your name?”
“Are you carrying me off?” she asked.
“Would you like me to? Where would you like to go, Penelope?”
“I thought you want
ed to go to Ashborn Manor.”
“I do. But my business there is dull. Perhaps I would like one more afternoon of happiness before I must attend to this business.” He slowed the horse to a walk. They were far from the road, in a meadow of tall grass shielded by trees. “Would you like to make me happy, Penelope?”
Her heart thumped. “Are you flirting with me, sir?”
“No.” His smile disappeared, and he looked down at her with darkened eyes. “I am—how do you say?—propositioning you.”
Her cheeks flamed. He should not say that—not to her, not to the unmarried daughter of a baronet to whom he’d not been introduced. She must stop him, explain to him that perhaps where he came from such things were done, but not in England.
But her skin prickled with sudden and forbidden delight, and dark places inside stirred to life. A gentleman did not simply ride to Penelope Trask and say those words in a silken voice, with promise in his eyes.
She remembered Magnus, her second betrothed, and his drunken slurs that he wanted to grope her—she was going to be his wife after all, what ails you, gel?
This was not quite the same. This man was not drunk. His eyes were steady, his dark blue gaze holding something from her, she could not tell what. He smiled, but he was watchful.
“I think you are not familiar with English ways, sir,” she managed.
“I have been to England before.”
He halted the horse. They rested in the silence of the meadow, the quiet broken only by the drone of bees, and birds calling to one another in the sleepy heat.
“Penelope,” he said softly. “Since I have left my home, I have not seen anyone like you.” He touched his breastbone. “You have given me a pain, here.”
She felt as though a fog were coming over her mind, as though he had cast a spell, like the magicians in her stories. “How could I? I am nothing remarkable.”
“You are wrong.” His breath touched her cheek. “All my life, Penelope, I have existed inside a fairy tale. I have lived an empty life and done empty things. Now, everything is real, and I must face it.”
His eyes were not completely blue, as she’d thought, but flecked with black. They darkened further as he spoke, pressing back the flash of bleakness she had glimpsed before.