“Look at me, Lady Tansy.”
She didn’t want to. Particularly not given the king’s troubling proximity. So near that she could detect his scent, spice and musk with a hint of leather and citrus. A pleasant scent. Altogether not one she would have expected of a man like him, but she had never previously been near enough to take note. She supposed it stood to reason that brutal warriors might smell as lovely as anyone else.
Tansy took a deep, shaky breath. “Forgive me, Your?—”
“I said,look at me,” he interrupted, enunciating each of the words as sharply as if he wielded a whip.
She lifted her head and wished she hadn’t. He was even closer than she had supposed, presiding over her like one of the old gods her ancestors had worshiped. Fierce and fearsome, his face a collection of angular blades—wide jaw, high cheekbones, a stern nose. A fine scar marred the skin above one of hisslashing brows, a shocking hint of a past vulnerability. His black hair brushed over broad shoulders, twin patches of silver at his temples. He had amber flecks in the dark-brown depths of his eyes, and his mouth was almost cruel to look upon, sensual and full lips so harsh and unyielding.
And then those lips moved. “Say it again, Lady Tansy.”
She swallowed hard, her stomach knotting. Now she had done it. All these years of avoiding the wrath of the usurper Boritanian King Gustavson, and one foolish oath had ruined her.
In a quiet voice, she repeated the curse and then waited, shoulders tense, for a blow. For a cuff to the side of the head for her insolence. Everyone knew how vicious King Maximilian was.
“Are you a sorceress, madam?” he growled, the tone of his voice low and deep.
The question took her by surprise.
Confusion made her brow furrow. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Good, for I do not wish for my cock to rot off.”
She stared at him, aghast. King Maximilian did not jest. Did he? No, it simply wasn’t possible. And there was nary a hint of levity in his immovable countenance. Was there? The man could have been carved from marble, though she very much doubted he would be cool and smooth to the touch. Something told her he would be quite hot.
At the errant and most unwelcome thought, she nearly choked. The result was a strangled sound that was most impolite.
“Are you well?” he asked, his gaze narrowing.
No, she was not well. She was alone with a merciless tyrant who would soon be marrying the princess who had become like a sister to her over the years she had spent as Princess Anastasia’s lady-in-waiting. Tansy couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. Her head dropped, her gaze falling to the carpet.
“I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness,” she mumbled, still stricken by her lapse.
How could she have been so foolish as to exclaim the vile oath aloud?
She blamed the hours she had spent waiting for Princess Anastasia’s return, fretting and fearing on her behalf.
“I asked if you are well,” he reminded pointedly.
She was aware of him shifting; there was a rustle of fabric, his long arm stretching toward her slowly.
Would he strike her now, then?
“Very well, thank you, Your Majesty,” she managed, scarcely moving her lips.
“Hmm,” was all he said, his voice fashioned of steel and ice. And then his finger was on her chin, rough and firm and yet surprisingly gentle, urging it upward. Making her meet his gaze again. “I won’t hurt you, if that is what you fear. Does King Gustavson strike the women in his court?”
The bloodied lashes she had tended on the princess’s back rose in Tansy’s mind, and she had to bite back the bile rising in her throat. She should lie, for the tale was not hers to tell. But with his fathomless gaze holding her in thrall, she couldn’t seem to find the words. Still, she needed to say something. The king had spoken to her. Had asked her a question.
“I—” she began, only for his finger to settle in the bow of her upper lip, staying further explanation.
“You’ve answered me well enough,” he interrupted.
As quickly as he had reached for her, he withdrew his touch, before spinning on his heel and stalking toward the door. He unlatched and wrenched it open. Then, he strode out, closing it smartly at his back, somehow taking the air from the room with him.
Tansy stared at the paneled door, holding her breath.
The only sounds were more muffled voices and booted footsteps disappearing down the hall, both finally supplanted by the rhythmic ticking of a mantel clock. The jangling of tack interrupted, rising from the street below. And still the door remained closed.
