“You have ample time before we arrive in Varros,” he reminded them both. “Your mind will alter before then.”
He wouldn’t stop until it did.
He had fought a war that had raged on for years, all in the name of gaining what was his by right. Tansy was no different from his kingdom. She belonged to him, and he would lay siege until she accepted it.
Because no one kept King Maxim of Varros from what he wanted, and what he wanted with a ferocity that far surpassed any hunger he’d once had for the throne that had been denied him—was the solemn lady-in-waiting before him.
“It won’t,” she argued, persistent in her defiance.
He inclined his head. “It will be my greatest pleasure to prove you wrong, my lady. Now, come with me, and I’ll see you safely returned for the evening.”
CHAPTER 11
Maxim was in a foul mood.
Nando was missing. Tansy had left him the night before after once more refusing his offer, and he’d yet to see her today, caught up in one troublesome matter after the next. His betrothed had been wounded and was being held somewhere in London by another man. And he’d spent the better portion of the day hunting that man down like the mongrel he doubtlessly was.
All he wanted to do was go to Tansy. To make love to her properly as he should have done last night. To kiss every delectable inch of her body until all the stubbornness and defiance melted away.
Instead, he was following Archer Tierney through London like a wraith. At last, his quarry was within sight. Within reach. With a hand to the Venetian blinds on the window, he peeked into the darkness, spying the man he strongly suspected was bedding his future wife. Strangely, it was a circumstance that nettled his sense of duty and little else. He didn’t truly care what Princess Anastasia did after she gave him an heir, but the heir damn well had to be his blood, of his line, and not another man’swhelp. He couldn’t risk placing the kingdom in peril. There would be no more false claims to the throne of Varros.
The carriage slowed just before the shadowy figure, and Maxim leaned forward, opening the door.
“Get in,” he growled at Tierney.
“Not in need of a ride this evening, old chap,” the Englishman said politely, as if they were acquaintances passing in the street. “Thank you all the same.”
Surely he didn’t believe he’d been given a request. This was no favor Maxim was doing him out of the generosity in his heart. He needed to speak with Tierney, and Maxim didn’t ask permission. He gave demands.
But Tierney was moving to avoid him, as if he fully expected to carry on his way uninterrupted. Maxim whistled to Felix, who jumped down from the rear of the carriage. His bodyguard stopped on the pavements before Tierney, pistol pointed at the other man’s head.
“Halt,” Felix ordered coldly.
That certainly gave the bastard pause.
“There seems to be some sort of mistake afoot,” Tierney said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
That made two of them. But Maxim had a missing betrothed, and he needed to know where the hell she was and what had happened. The danger rose by the hour, it seemed.
“Take your hand from your coat,” Maxim ordered him, for he wasn’t about to meet his end at the hand of an Englishman. “Slowly.”
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Tierney demanded.
“I’m King Maximilian of Varros,” he said coldly. “Tell me, just what have you been doing with my future queen, Mr. Tierney?”
“What is this about?” Tierney asked, voice hoarse.
Poor fellow. That wasn’t going to be the way of it. He would learn soon enough.
“Get in the carriage,” he said calmly, “and we’ll talk.”
“Hand out of your coat,” Felix commanded, repeating Maxim’s order.
But Tierney didn’t appear to be inclined to comply.
“Do you want to die today, Tierney?” Maxim asked.
“I reckon not.” At last, Tierney withdrew his hand from his greatcoat, raising both arms, palms outward, to show his lack of armament.
