Penelope bit her lip. She’d not had the chance to speak to Michael during the whirlwind preparations and rituals that Sasha insisted on. Her mother seemed resigned that Michael would leave her. When Lady Trask no longer had the heart to have hysterics, Penelope knew that she was truly suffering.
“Damien has overturned all of our lives,” she said.
“That is true,” Meagan agreed. “I vow, I never dreamed I’d be chasing fairy-tale monsters and chatting with the Prince Regent and being a bridesmaid for my dearest friend who is marrying a prince.”
Penelope smiled. “You like the world upside-down, do you?”
“You must admit, Pen, that life was becoming deadly dull. Damien arrived just in time to save us from a summer of hideous ennui.” She sighed. “I did hope that I would be engaged myself to one of these Mayfair gentlemen before you left, but it is not to be.”
Penelope raised her brows. “I have seen you dancing with Mr. McDonald more than once. He is handsome enough, even if he wears kilts instead of tight trousers. Have you not tried to gain his admiration?”
“Do not tease me, my darling friend. There is nothing wrong with kilts, especially when you wonder, you know, what is under them. No, the Mad Highlander is handsome and gallant, but he loves another.”
“Who?” Penelope said, interested in spite of herself.
“I have no idea. But I see it in his eyes. That faraway look, you know, as though he is wishing he could be with his beloved, though he knows he never can. It is terribly romantic.”
Meagan was not smitten, then, if she could look upon the roguish, teasing Highlander and weave a tragic tale about him.
“You are inventing things,” Penelope chided.
“No. It is there if you look for it. I know about people.”
Penelope had to concede that Meagan did. She acted like a silly young miss, but mature wisdom lurked behind her shrewd eyes. If she claimed that Egan McDonald was pining for love, he likely was. Penelope’s mother, too, was pining for love, though she did not hide it as well as Mr. McDonald.
“You have given me an idea,” Penelope said, her spirits picking up. “I believe I can resolve things between my mother and your father.”
“Truly? May I help?”
“I believe I can,” Penelope repeated. “Depending upon how stubborn the pair of them remain. The problem is that your father does not believe my mother loves him. At least, not enough.”
“Yes,” Meagan said. “What he fears is that he is not good enough for her, and that she will throw him over the moment she finds a gentleman wealthier or more handsome.”
Penelope began to answer, then stared at her friend in surprise. “You agree with him.”
Meagan shrugged, her face going pink. “She did get very excited when she saw Damien’s rubies.”
“That is simply her way, Meagan. She learned to be silly and frivolous because it kept her from being hurt. People expect her to be silly. But she loves your father very much, and I will prove it.”
“I hope that you can,” Meagan said, her eyes serious. “Father is near to brokenhearted.”
“I will prove it right away.” She folded her parasol with a determined jerk. “Can you watch Wulf for a moment?”
“No,” Meagan answered at once. She held her hands palms out as though trying to stop a runaway horse. “I love you, Pen, but no.”
Penelope glanced at the boy. “He is awfully dirty. He will have to bathe again or Mathers will scold something awful. Mathers hates dirt on the carpets.”
Fortunately, Wulf seemed to enjoy baths. He liked to splash water everywhere and dive below the surface, coming up spluttering. For all Penelope could see, he was enjoying being a little boy.
“Wulf,” she said.
The effect was instantaneous. Wulf dropped the piece of wood he was using to dig, leapt to his feet, and ran to Penelope’s side.
They’d given him clothes from one of the groom’s sons, serviceable breeches, shirt, and shoes. In them he looked like a normal ten-year-old boy. His eyes were a bit large in his small face, but other than that, he looked in no way out of place.
He stood before Penelope, smeared with dirt but peering avidly at her, as though he hung on her every word. He might look like a child, but he behaved almost like a feral dog, one who loved one master and one master only. He understood Nvengarian, but he spoke little, save for a few words at a time. Since Penelope only knew a little of the language herself, their conversations were brief and halting.
“We must wash you,” she told him.
Wulf’s face brightened. “Bath,” he said, and grinned.
He grabbed Penelope’s hand and started hurriedly for the house, as though fearing she’d change her mind.
“Pen,” Meagan said, panting behind them. “How can you be so certain he will not hurt you?”
“I just know,” Penelope said over her shoulder. She could not explain the conviction, and she did not want to examine it too closely herself. “He will not hurt me.”
“What about the rest of us?”
“Nor you,” Penelope said. “I know, Meagan.”
Meagan made a skeptical sound. “Well, I suppose it’s no more bizarre than a prince and a prophecy. I used to say that nothing remotely interesting ever happened in Little Marching.”
As they emerged from the gardens, two horses and riders, followed at a little distance by liveried Nvengarians, came up the long drive to the house. One was dressed in a Nvengarian-style uniform, the other wore a kilt—Egan and Damien returning from their visit to the Bishop of Bessborough and the quest for the special license.
Chapter Sixteen
Horses did not like Wulf. They knew good and well that he was a demon, and sought to put as much distance as they could between themselves and him.
Egan and Damien dismounted as soon as Penelope and Wulf entered the drive, tossing their reins to grooms. The horses hurriedly followed the grooms, snorting and looking nervously over their shoulders.
Penelope stopped, remembering her first encounter with Damien, when he’d looked down at her from atop the midnight-black horse. His smile, that lazy smile that promised a lady so much, had made her bones melt.
Nothing had changed. He walked to her, the sinful, promising smile in place.
He and Egan were handsome in different ways. Damien’s polished sophistication overlaid strong control, a veneer of manners over the tumultuous emotions he inherited from his people. Egan had little polish, his kilt and boots and coat made for riding and fighting, not sitting in drawing rooms. He had raw strength, a man who would be equally at home sleeping in the heather and fishing for his dinner as dining in a castle.
Both were tall, broad-shouldered, handsome specimens. No wonder the gazes of the ladies present followed them wherever they went.
Damien put his fist under her chin and bent to kiss her briefly. He had not spoken to her or been alone with her since they’d found Wulf. His announcement that they’d marry in the village had caught her unawares, and she wanted to be angry with him for not consulting her in this matter.
But as their lips met, she momentarily forgot her anger. Without realizing she did it, she hungrily took his mouth, seeking him with her tongue. Smiling into the kiss, he slid his hand behind her head and drew her closer.
Egan laughed from two feet away. “Make an honest woman out of her first, lad.”
Face heating, Penelope broke from him. Egan was grinning, Meagan giggling. Wulf stared at them intently, as though not knowing what to make of them.
Damien teased the curls at the nape of Penelope’s neck. “I will as soon as I find the vicar. Thanks to Egan, who commanded the bishop’s son on the Peninsula, I have the license, and tomorrow, you and I will become husband and wife.” His eyes glittered. “Under English law, that is. Now, everyone will be happy.”
He gave her another smile, this one of satisfaction. Once again, Prince Charming had arranged everything to his liking.
Penelope co
uld have walked off in a huff, reminding the prince he had never bothered asking her, and perhaps making him look a bit of a fool. Polite Penelope Trask would never do such a thing, of course, but it was tempting to think of it.
Damien destroyed even the thought by lifting her hand and kissing it, then tucking it through his arm and strolling with her back to the house. The smile Damien slanted down at her promised wickedness once they were fully married, and that she would enjoy wickedness with him very, very much.
Later that evening, while Lady Trask played hostess in the card room, Penelope entered her mother’s bedchamber, found what she wanted, tucked it under her arm, and made her way to Michael Tavistock’s chambers.
The house was quiet, most of the guests playing cards or billiards or strolling the gardens under the light of paper lanterns. Wulf had gone to sleep in his small bedroom in the attic with as much enthusiasm as he played in the dirt or ate or took baths. The boy seemed to attack the basics of life with a gusto that made Penelope slightly ashamed at how much she took them for granted.
Because it was quiet, she was able to hear Damien and Michael speaking in Michael’s chamber as she approached the door.
“By tonight it will all be over,” Damien rumbled. “We will be married, and the betrothal rituals finished. A relief, I will confess.”
Penelope froze, her hand on the door handle.
“For Penelope, too, I imagine,” Michael’s dry voice answered. “You have put her through much.”
“Indeed, she has borne it well.” There was a pause, then when Damien spoke again, his voice sounded more distant, as though he’d strolled to look out the window. “We will have the marriage tomorrow and leave the next day.”
“You are rushing her a bit, aren’t you? Let the poor girl adjust to being your wife for a day or two, first.”
“But I do not have a day or two. I must present Penelope in the Imperial Prince’s castle on Midsummer’s Day, and time marches swiftly. I have had to waste much time convincing her and you and everyone in the household that I am serious in this venture. I have reasons for my hurry.”
Michael answered thoughtfully, “I understand them. This Alexander does not sound like he will give you a second chance to win over your people. But can you not give her a day to ready herself, to say her good-byes?”
Damien answered something, but Penelope missed it because a step behind her, either of a guest or a servant, startled her. She could hardly be found listening at a door, so she rapped on the wood and entered without waiting to be invited.
Michael looked up in surprise, then relaxed when he saw it was Penelope. Damien turned from the window. His blue eyes met hers, strong and steady, and he looked in no way ashamed that he’d been caught speaking about her.
She closed the door behind her. “I hope you will at least let me pack a valise,” she said crisply. “I will need a change of clothing.”
Damien remained where he was, answering her as though she had not spoken in irritation. “We will take as much as we can carry easily, then Sasha and the rest of the entourage will follow with a baggage train. They will move slowly, and you and I and Petri will ride ahead in carriages and on horseback. Wulf, too, I imagine, since he will not let you out of his sight.”
“You have planned well,” Penelope said, a little out of breath. “And so far in advance.”
His eyes were still. “Believe me that I would love to linger and enjoy the hospitality here for days to come, but I have no choice.”
She did not want to soften. She tried to stand resolute, then a spark flickered in his eyes, recalling the desire of the previous afternoon, when she lay in warmth with him, their bodies damp, skin on skin.
The dratted man could always melt her bones. “I know you are not marrying to please me,” she said. “But to save your throne.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “I would not say there is no pleasure in it.”
Her face heated until she was certain she was red as a poppy. How he could insinuate these things in front of Michael was beyond her comprehension.
“I will pack,” she said hastily. Face still scalding, she approached Michael and held out the book under her arm. “Read the passages I have marked,” she said. “Please read them before you decide to go.”
Michael accepted the book mutely, brows raised in curiosity. Penelope spun away from him, shot Damien a glance, then, when he gave her another lazy smile, she turned abruptly and scuttled out of the room.
At seven the next evening, a bemused Damien found himself in front of the lily-bedecked altar in the chapel at Little Marching, saying the English vows while he pushed a gold ring onto Penelope’s finger.
Behind him, Nvengarian uniforms filled the chapel, as did the finery of the ladies and gentlemen of Mayfair, including the Prince Regent in his Bath chair.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” Damien said in clear, rolling tones. “With my body, I thee worship.”
Penelope looked up at him, her eyes serene. She’d been angry as anything, he knew, when she’d interrupted his conversation with Tavistock, in which he’d implied that he was happy all the nonsense was over. Her eyes had flashed, beautiful as always, when she’d loftily demanded whether he’d give her time to pack.
Fool, he chided himself. How charming to tell a woman she is a piece of necessary baggage. His frustration was making him imprudent.
He would make it up to her. After this ceremony they would have supper, and then the bathing ritual would commence. The idea of the ritual was to metaphorically cleanse the bride and groom of their life beforehand, all their sins, all their mistakes, so that they could start afresh with each other. A nice idea, and it involved running his hands over Penelope’s slick, naked body.
She made the correct responses to the service in a clear voice, neither missish nor shy. She was marrying him in the eyes of her people, in the eyes of English law, and she would hold her head high.
The villagers and Londoners hastily prepared to enjoy themselves, and the Nvengarians, never willing to be left out of a celebration, joined in. As Penelope and Damien left the chapel, the collected group cheered madly, voices raised in joy, albeit rather slurred with the quantities of wine already drunk.
Flower petals littered the air, fluttering like pieces of brilliantly colored silk, then drifted to cling to his coat and Penelope’s gown and shining hair.
Back at the house, they had to sit through a long supper punctuated by endless toasts. Damien held Penelope’s hand under the table, but that was the only contact he had with her. He knew very well that this was only the beginning of such celebrations, which would become much more elaborate when they reached Nvengaria, if Sasha had his way. Sasha had already begun daily lessons with Penelope, trying to hammer into the girl the complex Nvengarian language. Damien thought Penelope would be up to the strain. She was resilient, his princess.
Even so, he planned to have plenty of private time with her. Part of Petri’s job was to see that Damien would be left alone when he needed to be. No one got past Petri. He was a steadfast servant and a loyal friend.
He wondered again about the enchanted sleep that had struck the entire household. It had not gotten as far as the village, inquiries had proven. Only the Trask house and the people in it had been affected. Sasha was busily trying to ferret out the mage who’d cast the spell, and so was Petri, but so far, they had not been successful.
As long as no one enchanted him and Penelope in their ritual bath, he thought. Sasha had given Damien a few charms, mostly twists of feathers and bone in colored wire, that he said would stave off spells. To please him, Damien had tucked the bizarre-looking things under his pillow and in a corner of the bathing room, though he did not have much faith in them. But one never knew.
At long last, Egan stood up, clad in his best kilt, shirt and formal coat, the plaid of the McDonalds wrapped about his shoulders. “My friends,” he said, swaying slightly. He had brought out his wedding gift to Damien, a few bottles
of richly amber Scots whiskey, and one, of course, for himself. “I give you a good man and an excellent prince, a man who will always be rich in charm and friendship.” He hesitated, then grinned. “Who is too damn good-looking for his own good, and who’s snared himself the most courageous, the most beautiful woman to grace the soil of England. I give you, Penelope and Prince Charming.”
“Penelope and Prince Charming!” Light glinted off glasses as they rose into the air.
Egan thumped his glass back to the table. “And now, let the poor couple do what they’re dying to do, enjoy their nuptial duty.”
The gentlemen, led by the Prince Regent, roared with laughter. Penelope went bright pink. The ladies laughed, too, Meagan giggling and the Russian countess sending Egan a hopeful look.
Damien stood up, raising his own glass, and the table quieted. “I thank my friend Egan for his generous words. Egan is eager to finish this ceremony so he may continue his search for the fabled dram of Nvengarian whiskey, the most potent liquid in all the world. It exists only in legend, but Egan is willing to brave that the legend is true. ’Tis his lifelong ambition.”
Laughter echoed around the table. Egan grinned, not looking offended, knowing Damien needed the attention from him for a few minutes. “A sip to any who help me find the wee thing,” he announced. More laughter from the gentlemen.
When they quieted, Damien said, “My bride and I must start for home tomorrow, and so we will say our goodbyes.” Those who hadn’t known this expressed dismay. Meagan’s happy expression became tinged with tears. “You have kindly welcomed me and my people. You will never be forgotten.” He lifted his glass. “The front gate of our castle will always be open to you.”
That brought another burst of laughter, and some applause.
“You have proved good and loyal friends, and I will reward you,” Damien continued. “Sasha has prepared gifts, which he will give you tonight.” He gave them a sly look. “I will be busy.”