“To pretend he is a doting suitor, you mean?” the princess asked quietly. “Hmm. Perhaps, though I hardly thinkit in keeping with his reputation. He’s known for his cold ruthlessness. It is what carried him through on the battlefield all those years of the Varros Great War.”
The king’s legendary battle prowess had, indeed, been reported widely. His victory over armies that had outnumbered his and his sheer defiance in the face of certain death had rendered him a figure both fearless and fearsome. How strange it was to think of him in those terms now, after she had spent time in proximity to him, after they had shared whisky and secrets. After she had sat upon his lap yesterday and felt his heat and muscled strength beneath her.
And another part of him as well.
The unwanted intrusion of the memory of his massive length pressing against her bottom was enough to make Tansy drop her pot of cream, which landed on its side on the carpet below. Licking lips that had gone dry, she hastily bent to retrieve her ointment before it spilled in its entirety.
“Oh dear,” she murmured to herself, guilt tangling her stomach in a knot. “Forgive me for my clumsiness.”
And for thinking about your future husband in an impure manner, she thought to herself, hating that she could not seem to stop. King Maximilian was forever beyond her reach. He was going to be the husband of her dearest friend, the woman she considered a sister. What was the matter with her?
“Shall I fetch a cloth to mop it up?” Princess Anastasia asked, blissfully unaware of the inner struggle waging within Tansy.
“No, of course not, Your Royal Highness,” she denied, shame threatening to swallow her. “I made the mess, and I will clean it.”
She reached for the nearest item at hand that could be of use—a handkerchief Tansy had been embroidering during her vigil in the supposed sickroom. Aside from the book she had been reading, she needed some way of occupying her time.
She reminded herself again that it was her duty to attend the princess.
Her duty to be loyal.
Her duty to put her needs, wants, her very life, aside.
It was decidedly not her duty to desire the king to whom the princess would soon be married. Nor to think about what his lips might feel like pressed against hers, whether he was capable of softness, of tender seduction.
The very thought sent such a pang of yearning through her that she upturned the pot a second time, spilling more onto the rug.
“Oh dear, you must let me help,” Princess Anastasia said, moving to retrieve a small towel at the washbasin before kneeling and helping Tansy.
“Such a task is beneath you,” she felt compelled to remind the princess. “I am perfectly capable of cleaning the spilled balm.”
“Perhaps, but you were kind enough to make it for me, and already it has done wonders to fade the mark.”
The reminder of the reason for the bruise had Tansy scrubbing the carpet harder, quite soiling her handkerchief. “I hope you will consider my warnings.”
“I will consider them as always, dear friend,” Princess Anastasia said with a mysterious smile.
One that told Tansy she had no intention of abandoning her plan to lose her maidenhead to the Englishman tasked with helping her find her exiled brother.
“It is dangerous,” she whispered. “I wish you would not continue to flit about in the night as you’ve done. Surely you’ve provided all the information he needs.”
“You worry too much, Tansy,” Princess Anastasia said without bite, giving her hand a reassuring pat. “This is my last chance for freedom before…”
Her words trailed off and she grimaced, as if her future as King Maximilian’s queen were too wretched to consider, let alone voice. And Tansy hated herself in that moment for thinking about what being married to such a man might entail—sharing his bed. Hated herself for the forbidden longing it sparked to life deep inside her.
Hastily, Tansy finished cleaning the rug and straightened, pot of balm in hand. “Promise me you will be careful, Your Royal Highness. Boritania is depending upon you.”
Princess Anastasia rose as well, her countenance turning serious and hard. “I know they are, and I promise you, Tansy, there isn’t anything I want more than to see my kingdom and its people prosper again. Support me in this one whim, giving myself to a man of my choosing. It’s all I ask for myself.”
Tansy nodded, humbled by the princess’s depth of sacrifice. She was putting herself in grave peril for the good of Boritania, and Tansy admired Princess Anastasia for that and so many other reasons. It wasn’t that she thought the princess was unworthy of making her own choices, but rather that she very much feared the repercussions of those choices.
One, in particular.
But she didn’t want to think about why she was so concerned about King Maximilian and his response, should he discover what the princess had been about with Archer Tierney. Nor did she want to think of him as a man with emotions and desires at all, for doing so rendered him far more tempting than he already was. No, indeed, she would be well-served to keep her mind and heart rooted firmly in duty and loyalty to her princess and kingdom where they belonged.
Tansy raised her fingers to her lips in the traditional salute, then lifted them into the air. “For Boritania.”
“Thank you for being such a good, steadfast friend to me for all these years. I couldn’t have asked for a better lady-in-waitingat my side.” The princess returned the salute, solemn. “For Boritania.”
