Sasha’s mouth moved along with Penelope’s, and when Penelope let go of Lady Trask’s hand, he gushed a sigh, “It is done.”
The Nvengarian servants in the hall whooped in de
light. Several of the English servants did as well. Mathers looked aggrieved, but the other Trask servants had decided that the Nvengarians’ high spirits and habit of bringing forth ale or whiskey to celebrate just about anything were more to their taste than quiet soberness.
In the drawing room, Petri poured bloodred wine and handed it ’round. Penelope sipped hers, surprised at the thick, mellow taste. Meagan took a hearty swig, until Michael gave her the eye, and she innocently set the goblet on the table.
In the hall, one of Damien’s footmen, Rufus or Miles—she could not tell them apart yet—shouted in heavily accented English, “All hail Princess Penelope!”
“All hail Princess Penelope!” came the returning cry, in English and in Nvengarian.
Lady Trask looked proud, Meagan, excited.
Damien was watching her. Penelope pretended not to notice, but the look in his eyes was dark and intense and satisfied.
Damien quit the house after the ritual, to avoid succumbing to temptation and dragging Penelope off to have his way with her. He’d wanted to drag her to him and kiss her and kiss her, savoring every inch of her.
The ring on her finger meant she accepted her lineage. That she was his for the taking. She’d looked up at him with confusion in her starry eyes, starting to believe in her fate and not certain she wanted to.
He wanted to take her to bed and show her everything her fate could be.
Best he leave the house before he swept her into his arms and ran upstairs with her, thus negating the prophecy, ruining his country, and playing into Alexander’s hands.
To curb himself, he took Petri with him to the village to check on preparations there.
They found Little Marching teeming with activity.
Carts and wagons filled with lumber and canvas rumbled through the High Street. At the end of the High, in the village square, a platform had been built, the banner of the Imperial Princes—two snarling, golden wolves on a background of deep blue—already hanging from it. Awnings with the blue and gold of Nvengaria flapped from nearly every doorway and rose above the platform.
The tavern door stood open, and despite the work going on, plenty of men had found time to drop in for a pint.
As soon as Damien ducked through the doorway, a shout went up.
“Three cheers for Prince Damien!”
“Hip, hip, hooray!” Nvengarian flags came out and waved in fervor.
“Where did they get the flags?” Damien murmured to Petri in Nvengarian.
“Rufus and Miles,” he answered.
“Ah.” Damien called, in English, “Landlord, I will—what is the phrase?—I will stand the next round.”
The cheering rose. Men working outside hurried in to partake. The landlord, smiling broadly, handed tankards to his barmaids as fast as he could.
The landlord’s daughter flashed a hopeful smile at Damien as she brought him a tankard. Damien thanked her politely, then gave Petri a nod. Petri, taking the cue, slipped in beside her and easily diverted her attention. The village girls were finding Petri’s warm smiles and faulty English quite enchanting.
Damien quietly sipped his ale, listening to the others talk and laugh. When he felt the time right—the patrons sufficiently benevolent toward all things Nvengarian—he stepped in front of the bar and raised his hands for silence.
It took a while, because every man in the place started shouting—“Quiet, the prince is about to speak!” “I am quiet—
you
get quiet.” “If we all stop shouting, the man can talk!”
At last, Damien simply cut across their noise. “My friends.” The chatter ceased as they turned to look at him. “I thank you for the warm welcome you have given me and my people. I have grown to love your little village in the few days I have been here.”
This engendered more cheering. Damien knew it would. But Damien was used to waiting for crowds to quiet between sentences. In Nvengaria, one could never be certain what a speaker said to the masses, because he could never be heard over screaming of the crowd.
The English, at least, quieted a little in case he said something interesting.
“I have had word,” Damien went on, “that the Prince of Wales will indeed be attending our fête.”
More cheers. Englishmen, in general, rather despised the portly Prince Regent, but having royalty visit a village was reason for celebration. And another round of ale.
“You must do something for me,” Damien said.
The hubbub died down again. Eager, somewhat glassy gazes fixed on Damien.
“You must show great honor to your prince,” he said. “You must cheer mightily for him, and wave your English flags, and show your love of England to him. He will reward you well, I think.”
The farmer in the back raised his flagon. “Long live Prince George!”
“
Long live Prince George! God save the King!”
Damien waited, smiling gently. He wanted the villagers on his side in his quest to win Penelope, in case he had to recruit them to help spirit her away. As well, it was satisfying to gain the reputation of benevolence. Prince Damien had learned how to be welcome, even by people who instinctively disliked and mistrusted foreigners.
But he needed the Prince Regent on his side as well. The Prince was jealous of Damien, and he would be less than
pleased to discover that Damien had walked into an English village and taken it over.
Damien hadn’t really, he knew that. These men were salt of the earth who might grumble over the posh gents in London overtaxing their poor bit of land, but, by God, they were English posh gents, and English taxes and English bits of land. No foreigners would tell them what to do.
Damien also needed England to come in firmly on his side of the uneasiness in Nvengaria. He could not afford to let England back Alexander. Republics were fashionable these days, and Grand Duke Alexander had the Council of Dukes and the Council of Mages cowed. If Damien could keep England on his side by making Prince George believe he was the center of attention at this fête, then so be it.
“Thank you, my friends,” he said to the assembly.
The same farmer shouted, “Long live Prince Damien!”
A huge cheer rattled the rafters. Damien bowed politely, smiled his thanks, and stepped away.
“I did not understand what you said,” Petri remarked in Nvengarian as they strolled away, “but it sounded impressive.”
Behind them, another man slurred, “Three cheers for Prince Damien!” His followers took up the call.
“Hip, hip,
horaaaaay!”
To the same chant that had ushered them in, Petri and Damien ducked out of the tavern.
“They are good people,” Damien answered his valet.
Petri shot him a look. “It is not simply their good nature. You are a natural ruler, sir. The peasants in Nvengaria do not bow simply because they have to. The peasants here do not have even that stricture upon them, and yet, they show their respect. And their liking.”
“You exaggerate my virtues.”
“No, you downplay them. Your father hated you for a
reason. The people loved you, and not him. Made him insane.”
Damien growled, “No more of that, Petri.”
Petri had known him forever and shrugged off reprimands. “You dislike hearing the truth, is all, sir. Look, here comes something that will cheer you.”
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.