Damien’s estimation of Meagan rose. She was a staunch and steadfast friend. The two ladies walked toward the tavern, bodies close as though protecting each other from shock. Penelope’s basket lay forgotten in the dirt, her shopping list ruffled by the slight breeze.
Once the ladies were out of earshot, the Nvengarian men let their emotions flow. One footman spit on the body.
“We will tear him apart,” another said, his eyes blazing. “Nail bits of him to every tree as a warning to those who dare try to kill our prince.”
“And our princess,” another growled.
The others shouted assent.
They spoke in Nvengarian, but the Englishmen seemed to get the gist.
“Bloody upstart,” one growled. “We should hang him from a gibbet.”
More shouts.
“Now, gents,” the constable interjected.
Damien said to his own men, “Let the English deal with this in their way.”
The Nvengarians quieted a little, but their blood was up. They wanted something to fight.
“I will hunt that pig Duke Alexander and make him pay,” the first one said.
“Steady, lad,” Petri said, coming up beside Damien. “You wouldn’t get closer than his fifth bodyguard.”
“I will kill him and make him drink his own blood.”
“I’d like to watch that.” Petri grinned. “You know, Titus, these English lads here have never seen Nvengarian wrestling. Work off some steam and show them a thing or two.”
Titus’s young eyes gleamed. “Yes, sir.” He switched to struggling English and pointed at the villagers. “You. Come. We show you fight.”
“Do not kill anyone,” Petri said mildly. “They’re our allies.”
Titus nodded gravely. “I will try to remember.”
The footmen led the villagers off, save for the constable and a few men left to deal with the body.
Damien turned away. His blood was boiling as much as young Titus’s. If Alexander chose to throw assassins at Damien, well and good. But not Penelope. Never Penelope.
He would have joined in the Nvengarian-style wrestling, which involved much kicking and punching and more resembled a free-for-all, if he weren’t so concerned for Sasha.
“Titus is not wrong,” Damien said as he and Petri made quickly for the tavern. “Alexander will answer for this.”
“Are you sure it was the duke?” Petri asked. “Not very subtle for one of his assassins. In broad daylight and you surrounded by loyal men? He’d never hope to get away.”
“He nearly succeeded,” Damien pointed out. “If not for you, he would have. No, this is Alexander’s work, Petri. He’s found a way to rid Nvengaria of its dangerous radicals. ‘Go hunt Prince Damien,’ he’s told them. And they have.”
“Shit, sir.”
“Exactly. I want Penelope protected. At all times. No one is to get near her. Ever. Do you hear me?”
“I understand.”
Petri did. Damien knew the man would take care of things. They walked quickly to the tavern and ducked inside.
Penelope pressed the cloth to the wound in Sasha’s back, her heart heavy. This man had saved her life. At the cost of his own?
She would never let that happen, she thought determinedly. The landlord had already sent a lad running for a surgeon, Mr. Phipps from Coombe Stepping, three miles away.
Sasha had bleated an embarrassed protest when they took off his coat and waistcoat and shirt, and had remained distressed until Meagan had consented to move off a little and turn her back.
On the other hand, he’d begged Penelope to stay. Held her hand tightly as though her very presence comforted him. She didn’t have the heart to leave him.
He lay still now, face down, eyes closed, but he was awake and breathing normally, if heavily. Perhaps they might be lucky, and the wound would not be mortal.
Penelope replayed the scene over and over in her mind,
beginning with the man putting his hand on Damien’s shoulder and aiming a knife straight at him. She had frozen, too far away to do anything, knowing at that moment she would watch Damien die.
Deep emotion she’d never known had rushed to her throat. Time had slowed, and she’d seen the knife flash with deadly accuracy toward Damien’s heart.
When Petri pushed Damien aside, and the man had twisted away, Penelope had gone weak with relief. Even the sight of the crazed assassin running for her, the pain of the stones scraping her hands as Sasha pushed her against the well, had not scared her like seeing Damien nearly die.
She glanced at the ring on her finger, heavy and silver and old. She’d seen her mother wear it dozens of times, and her grandmother wear it before that. Did it have something to do with her strange need for Damien’s well-being?
She sensed Damien enter the room. The men shifted as though his presence pushed them aside.
“Sasha, my old friend.” Damien’s voice held a note of gentleness she hadn’t heard before. He placed his hand on Sasha’s bare, rather plump shoulder. “For this service, I can never repay you. You will be honored in the city square of Narato. We will give you a parade.”
This seemed to be the right thing to say. No thanks or sorrow or remonstrating for getting himself hurt.
Sasha brightened. “I only do my duty, Your Highness.”
“True, but you could easily have stepped aside and let the bodyguards fight him off. It is their duty, not yours.”
Sasha put out his hand. Damien clasped it. The older man clung to Damien’s hand, seeming comforted by touching the silver Nvengarian ring. “The sacrifice is an honor.”
“I’ll not let you sacrifice your life. I need you still. A surgeon is coming. He’ll stitch you up and have you organizing the rituals again in no time.”
Damien spoke confidently, but he looked worried. The
wound might not have cut an organ, but it was deep and could so easily fester.
Sasha patted Damien’s hand. “Do not worry, Highness. The princess is here. She will heal me.”
Penelope looked up in surprise. Damien caught her eye, shook his head slightly. “You’re not that far gone, Sasha. The surgeon will help.”
“I need no surgeon if I have the princess.” He spoke with happy certainty.
“Damien,” Penelope whispered. “What does he mean?”
Sasha heard her. “The true princess of Nvengaria has the power to heal the sick and the injured.”
Penelope’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to bleat a protest—she could certainly make a poultice and brew an herbal tea, but that did not mean she could close a man’s wound or keep fever from entering his body.
Damien put his hand under her arm and pulled her to a corner. “Humor him, love. He needs you.”
She stared. “Are you mad? When did you plan to mention this aspect of being the princess?”
“When it came up. Which it has.”
“But I cannot heal him,” she insisted. “What will happen when I cannot? Will he denounce me?”
“No, because you
will
heal him.”
She studied his face, which was beautiful like a bright blade. “Damien, I cannot, truly.”
“Wash his wound, rub his back, do something. Trust me.”
His blue eyes were dark and warm. She wanted to trust him when he looked at her like that.
She needed to remember that this man was a leader who knew how to compel people to do what he wanted.
She closed her eyes and counted to ten. She truly needed to get Damien alone and make him tell her every last thing she needed to know about being a princess of Nvengaria. Of course, the last time they’d been alone,
they’d almost broken the prophecy by making love on the chair at her dressing table.
The vivid sensations of that night returned to her. Desire coiled in her belly. He stood so close to her, his hand gripping her arm, his breath in her ear.
Their backs were to the rest of the room. She turned her head and brushed her lips lightly across his.
The contact nearly undid her. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and let him hold her and soothe her. The assassin had terrified her, and not because he’d tried to kill her, but because he’d tried to kill Damien.
She realized this had not been the first time he’d been so attacked. He’d implied as much to Meagan’s hurried questions, and Sasha and Petri and his guards had known exactly what to do.
Her fright made her want to hold on to Damien and make sure he was all right. But Damien hadn’t been hurt, and neither had she. Sasha had.
Damien’s pupils widened, the black spreading through the blue. He wanted her.
She whispered against his mouth, “I will try, for you.”
She turned, breaking the contact, and went back to Sasha. Meagan had turned around and was staring at her in trepidation. Meagan wanted to believe this all a fairy tale come true, but even she doubted.
Damien waited. Sasha waited. The men of the tavern waited.
Penelope swallowed, her throat dry.
“I will need a bowl of water, please,” she said to the landlord, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “and some nettles to clean his blood, and lavender if you have it.”
Penelope cured him. Or, at least, Sasha believed she did. Damien watched, both amused and proud, as Penelope washed and dressed Sasha’s wound. She stroked her
hands lightly over the man’s back, without maidenly qualms.
Sasha had sighed happily and declared all the pain gone. He’d wanted to walk back to the house himself, but Damien had stopped him. Resting after battle, he said, was the better part of valor.
The landlord fixed Sasha with a room where he could recover. Sasha stayed without fuss, and when he felt better the next day, resumed planning the fete from there.
Damien had taken Penelope aside and kissed her to thank her. She’d looked serene, but also agitated. He didn’t blame her. He’d meant to get her used to being Princess of Nvengaria little by little, but everything wanted to spring on her at once.
Events sprang on her at the fete, as well, until Damien would not have been surprised if she’d caught up a rapier and told him to go back to Nvengaria and leave her alone.
The first event was the Prince Regent.
He arrived in a royal coach, surrounded by at least two score Horse Guards, riding double file and carrying shining swords. He would stay at the Trask home, the largest house in the area, which meant that an entire wing had to be set aside for his use.
Fortunately, the family mostly used the east wing, so the west wing could be made over under Sasha’s careful supervision into chambers fit for the stand-in monarch of England.
Penelope had no idea from where came Damien’s resources, but they’d brought in a huge bed, wall hangings and paintings—some from Carleton House itself—soft chairs large enough to accommodate the prince’s bulk, plates, candlesticks, draperies, footstools, tables, padded benches, dressing tables, and a Bath chair.
Meagan and Penelope watched the proceedings from afar, the Nvengarians letting neither of them get in the way.
“Oh, my,” Meagan said. “Katie Roper never had the Prince Regent staying in her house. I shall be able to crow about this for the longest time.”
Penelope was happy that someone, at least, was getting benefit out of all this mess. The rest of the household was in chaos, Sasha kept beaming at Penelope and coming to touch her hand, Lady Trask shuttled between excitement that royalty would stay in her home, and oh, dear, what about the state of the guest rooms that hadn’t been used in a decade?
Damien’s servants had taken over every aspect of the house, including the cooking, resulting in the old cook’s giving notice. It took Damien to charm her into staying. He made her a sort of glorified chef who could sit on her backside and shout at people as much as she liked. Since most of the Nvengarian staff didn’t speak English, she bellowed and they ignored her, thus maintaining mutual satisfaction.
“If I go to Nvengaria,” Penelope said to Meagan as they awaited the Regent’s coach, “would you come with me? If only for a little while? I would miss you so, and truth to tell, I cannot imagine going alone. Not even with Damien.”
Meagan hesitated a long moment before answering. The approaching cloud of dust blurred the horizon, kicked up by horses and a breeze.
“I will understand if you do not want to,” Penelope began around a lump in her throat. Meagan shook her head.
“Penelope, Damien says we cannot come with you. None of us.”
She froze. “What?”
Meagan kept her eyes on the approaching coach, her cheeks pink. “I argued with him already. He says it is too dangerous for I or my father or your mother to come with you. That his enemies might use us to get to you or Damien. That he cannot spare the men to protect us all.”
Penelope’s mouth tightened. “Oh, did he?”
“Penny, I think he’s right. I did not know what to do when that man ran at you with a knife. All I could think of was to dive behind the well. I couldn’t even help you.” She looked mournful. “What if I should be the cause of someone hurting you? Or Damien? I would die. That is, if the assassins left me alive long enough.”
“But—”
“I brought forth every argument I could think of—that I am small and do not take much room, that I could look after you as well as myself, that I am a coward and would stay far away from any assassin—but he countered them all. He and his men can take care of you, Penelope. He is right. We’d only be in the way.”
“You would not be in the way,” Penelope protested, feeling desperate.
“Yes, we would, and you know it. We would not know what to do. Look how Sasha rushed to protect you.”
“I would rather
not
think of it.” She had relived the moment in her dreams over and over, Sasha shoving her hard against the stone well, his slight body covering her own, his sharp gasp as the knife slid into his back.
She also remembered how Sasha had relaxed and breathed out when she’d washed his wound in the tavern, happily declaring the pain gone.
Whether she truly did have healing magic, or whether Sasha only believed it so much that it worked, she did not know. But Sasha had recovered quickly from his wound with no ill effects. Damien’s entourage, even the cynical valet, Petri, had begun to look at her with new respect.
Sasha stood not far from them, waiting stiffly, in full regalia. He’d put on a uniformlike suit that was even more military-looking than his previous suits. Medals dangled from his breast, and his sash of office shone like he’d polished it.
The other servants had spit and shined every piece of their livery as well. Those with more braid, lace, and
medals strutted a bit cockier than those with less. Rufus and Miles stood with heads high, their chests covered with the most medals of all, their shoulders weighted with yards looped of braid.
In contrast, Damien wore a suit of almost drab plainness. It was obviously cut by an expensive Bond Street tailor, but it was severe black and brown, having none of the flash and color of the Nvengarian livery.
When the coach stopped and a dozen servants in the Regent’s livery swarmed about the coach like bees on a hive, Penelope understood Damien’s choice in clothing. Damien could have easily outshone the Prince Regent had he worn an elegant suit or Nvengarian finery. He had, for whatever reason, deliberately decided not to.
The footmen hauled the Regent from the coach and settled him in his Bath chair, taking care to balance his gouty foot. Damien bowed low before him, showing him every deference, then shook his hand like a friend. The Regent cast a jealous eye over Damien’s athletic body, then assessed his clothes with a certain smugness.
Penelope pictured the thoughts in the Regent’s head—Damien might be handsome and well-formed, but the Regent’s own clothes were far more sumptuous. The prince of Nvengaria obviously had no idea how to dress.
Penelope saw Damien’s face when the Regent was wheeled away to be greeted by an ecstatic Lady Trask. His expression held calm assurance that everything was going his way. He caught Penelope’s eye, and winked.
She frowned back at him. The man knew exactly how to sweeten everyone to his will—Meagan, her mother, the villagers, and now the Prince Regent. Even Michael had thawed considerably toward him. Everyone did exactly what Damien wanted them to do, and fell all over themselves to do it.
Including herself.
He had convinced Meagan and her mother and
Michael to allow him to take Penelope away with him alone, leaving friends and family behind. He’d never consulted Penelope, or even mentioned it to her. He decided, then charmed others into going along with his decisions.
She scowled at him, earning herself a dazzling smile. It did not help that every time he smiled, she wanted to do every single thing he told her to.
She forced herself to frown again, then turned her back and went into the house.
The fete was the talk of society for years to come. Prince Damien had gotten it up in grand style, with banquet tents for the posh ladies and gents and tables outside for the villagers.
The villagers of Little Marching had privileged status at the food stalls and the games, which made them carry their heads a little higher. Nvengarian and British flags flew over everything, and every time a prince was spotted, a cheer went up. The Regent nodded and waved, reveling in his popularity.