“Ask Felix if you must know,” he said instead, referring to his deadliest guard.
The one who, as it happened, had been responsible for dispatching the spy who had dared to infiltrate the house with the intent of sending word back to King Gustavson in Boritania. When the bastard had been confronted, he had extracted a vicious-looking blade from his coat, wielding it against Maxim. Fortunately, Felix had acted with his customary haste and precision.
“I will in the morning,” Nando said, still keeping the steady rhythm as they paced the length of the entry hall in the opposite direction. “I’m too tired to seek him out this evening, and I have a suspicion hearing his tale will only make it more difficult for me to sleep.”
That was something they had in common—the dreams that haunted them and the darkness that made it impossible to find peace.
“Your suspicion is correct,” he said curtly, trying to keep his mind from the gruesome details.
Trying to think instead of the pleasing floral scent of Lady Tansy. The softness of her skin when he had touched her. The awareness that had flared between them. The tingling in his lips when he had laid his where hers had been. The secrets and whisky they had shared, as if they were old friends instead of wary strangers.
“You should try to get some rest, brother,” Nando told him quietly, sounding worried.
He was accustomed to his brother’s concern for his welfare. And grateful he never elaborated. The shame that threatened to drown him along with his demons was never far.
“I cannot yet,” he admitted, sighing heavily. “Perhaps I’ll play a game of chess.”
“With yourself?” Nando scoffed. “If you won’t sleep, then neither shall I. But fair warning. I’ll crow when I trounce you.”
Relief washed over him, chasing more of the disquiet. “We both know that I always win, brother.”
“Lies.” Nando neatly led them down the hall to the library where Maxim’s favorite chess board, brought from Varros, had been laid in preparation for just such an occasion.
Hours later as the sun rose in the sky and Maxim finally laid his head on his pillow, it wasn’t thoughts of the dead man haunting him, nor was it memories of war. Rather, it was a pair of sparkling gray eyes.
“You should eat more,”Tansy told Princess Anastasia as she pushed aside the tray of sickroom fare that had been brought to her chamber that morning by one of the English servants.
Blessedly, it hadn’t been one of King Gustavson’s guards. The less Tansy saw of those scoundrels, the better off she and the princess were, for there were fewer risks of their deception being unraveled. No curious eyes attempting to peer over Tansy’s shoulder as she accepted the tray either.
“I cannot eat more,” Princess Anastasia said. “You know why.”
Of course Tansy knew the reason her friend didn’t dare to consume any more than a few bites of toast and some sips of tepid tea. If they wanted her uncle’s guards to believe their farce—and they very badly needed them to, for their lives were in danger otherwise—then the princess could not be eating her breakfast as if she were healthy. They couldn’t afford for any suspicions to be raised, nor for word to reach the king if there were. Tansy didn’t doubt that Gustavson would have them both killed without the slightest hesitation.
A shiver passed down her spine.
“It isn’t good for your constitution,” she countered anyway. “Surely you must be hungry.”
“I am hungry for justice,” the princess said softly.
“And something decidedly less noble,” Tansy said wryly, though she knew she shouldn’t speak of the plan her friend had confided in her.
Not only was it not her place to do so, she would be wise to forget the princess’s whispered plot. However, she was worried about her friend. Princess Anastasia was in a position of grave danger, both from her uncle’s guards, from her uncle the king, and from her betrothed, King Maximilian.
Thinking of the man who had seated himself by the fire with her the day before made an odd flutter come to life in Tansy’s stomach. He had scarcely seemed as ruthless and terrifying as his reputation suggested when he had been sharing his whisky with her. But then, what did she truly know about him?
More than she should, she thought with instant regret and the stinging lash of guilt. For she had been far too familiar with the king.
Princess Anastasia sighed heavily, her blue gaze seeking Tansy’s, her countenance unfettered and honest. “You’ve made no secret of your disapproval. But if you would meet Mr. Tierney yourself, I know you would understand. There is something about him that is…”
“Rakish,” Tansy supplied when the princess faltered in her description of the man she had met the evening before with King Maximilian’s blessing.
Her friend’s lips twisted. “No.”
“Disreputable?” she suggested next, hating the notion of the princess making any manner of ill-advised bargain with an English rogue.
“Magnetic,” the princess said with great feeling and another sigh. “The English word was eluding me. And handsome, of course. He is a powerful man.”
“As is the king you will wed,” Tansy reminded her primly, taking up the tray her friend had scarcely touched.
