A Bride for the Lost King

by Maisey Yates

  Agnes, Shield Maiden of Lazarus.

  And thus she would remain.

  “Whatever you require of me,” she said. “This I shall do.”

  “Then you shall come with me now,” he said. “To Paris.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MONEY DIDN’T MATTER in the Dark Wood. But Lazarus himself knew how to wield it to his advantage, knew exactly how to slide into the moneyed circles that he sometimes must inhabit.

  Agamemnon had taught him that a leader—even a leader who operated in secret—could not afford to be ignorant of the world. He had helped him create a background that would give him the necessary paperwork to travel. To exist. He had taught him about money, investments, which Lazarus had taken to easily. He had taken the money held by his people and increased it tenfold.

  He moved seamlessly between the borders of the wood and other parts of Europe, where he slid off the mantle of guardian of the forest and put on a suit.

  He did not take Agnes with him on such sojourns, not usually. Though, it was how he had found her in the first place. But it was the only time they had traveled in this manner together. She never liked it.

  She didn’t like to let him out of her sight.

  She was dedicated, his warrior, though he knew that he didn’t actually require her presence in order to keep himself safe. No, it was more to do with her. With protecting her, though he knew that she would bristle at the assertion.

  Poor Agnes.

  But this... This was the way in which she could prove useful. For Alexius desired the two of them to have a relationship—one like brothers. And if Lazarus had not been hardened by his years, by the early loss of his family. A family who had not even searched for him. Then he might feel guilt that he had no such intent.

  They had met only twice since he had first revealed himself to Alexius, with Alexius inviting him to come and stay before his wedding to Tinley. He’d had a few weeks to consider that and decide his next move.

  The presence of a fiancée on his arm would soften Lazarus’s appearance.

  Since his own face would not do it.

  He had come to terms with his scars long ago. In the wood it was a symbol of survival. Of his strength.

  Out in the world sometimes he was greeted with terrified stares.

  But there were many women who worshipped those scars. Who found them dangerous and very, very appealing.

  And so he had learned to use them.

  As he would use Agnes. To make himself seem human.

  Not that Agnes was soft. She was fierce and sharp, and much like traveling with a live possum. She was comically small but muscled from her years of training. She was fast, and she was quick in mind and movement.

  And currently, she was seated on the floor of his private jet, wearing her typical uniform of baggy linen pants and an equally loose-cut top. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her black hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Her dark eyes glittered in distaste. She was a woman with no country, she had said it often, until she had come to live in his. His hidden country at the center of another. And she was also a woman whose heritage was impossible to divine. Her eyes were catlike and tilted upward, her mouth full, her skin a cinnamon color.

  She was pretty. Though, he did not often ponder her appearance.

  It was relevant now only because her beauty made her a believable choice as fiancée.

  “It would not harm you to come and sit on the furniture.”

  She looked up at him. “I’ve no need.”

  “You are not a feral animal, and it does not benefit either of us for you to behave as such.”

  She frowned. “Does it benefit a warrior to grow soft?”

  “You are not needed in that capacity.”

  “I resent it.”

  “Do you? What I require is someone I can trust. Absolutely. That, I assumed I could do with you. No one knows of my plans. It is not safe. Can I not trust you?”

  She scrambled to her feet. “You can trust me. With your life.”

  “And so I thought. This is simply another kind of mission.”

  She wrinkled her nose, then with some reluctance came to sit at the far end of a couch with a great distance between her and the chair in which he sat.

  Funny creature. Was she so thrown off by his request for her to fulfill this new role?

  Well. He supposed she was so unaccustomed to this kind of softness. They enjoyed the simple life in the wood.

  She seemed happy there, though she did not seem to have friends. But then, neither did he. He felt that he and Agnes were of the same mind in many ways. They kept to themselves. They cared more about their disciplines. About their responsibilities.

  Neither of them was frivolous.

  And yet he would have to engage in some frivolousness now. The truth was, the news of his resurrection from the dead had been internationally recognized, and he was not used to such a thing.

  He was known in business circles, and had been for some time, but he did not court the spotlight. For clear reasons.

  But that had changed, and it meant that this engagement needed to occur on the same stage. Otherwise, it would not look real. His brother would not believe that he took a woman without showering her in gifts. Without a trip to Paris. At least, that was not the sort of man he wished the world to believe he was.

  He would have to marry, it was true. He would have to have an heir. But, in the woods, courtship rituals were much different. Vows were spoken between the lovers, the world was not involved. It seemed to him a fine way to conduct courtship. And yet, it was not the way of the outside world. Whether he agreed with it or not, he could understand it.

  When the plane touched down in Paris, there was a car waiting for them. All of their items were loaded into it, and Agnes walked with her head down, her expression determined.

  “Where have you acquired all these things?” she said, when they were on the road. He wondered if she was trying to act unimpressed with the city around them. Though, as she had said, she had been here before.

  “Surely you must know that I have taken the riches of our kingdom and multiplied them.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Though, I confess I did not realize it was... Riches in the sense of what exists out in this world.”

  Value in the wood came from what was useful, and what was beautiful. The time and effort and talent put into creating. It was different, but they could not thrive without bringing in amenities from the outside world. It was simply not possible. And so, money was necessary.

  And he had made it abundant. His first step in securing a better, safer future for his adopted people.

  “Of course it is,” he said. “I’m a practical man above all else, Agnes.”

  “Well. I know. But I find the world out here to be impractical. You forget that I used to live in it. For longer than you did.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. He didn’t forget much, but he supposed he did forget that on occasion.

  “True. You are a woman of this world.”

  “I’m not,” she said, shaking her head. “I have released my hold on it. There was never going to be anything for me out here.”

  She looked out the car window.

  “You’re resourceful,” he said.

  “It’s true,” she said. She turned to look at him, her dark gaze bold and direct. “Being here though, is a stark reminder of what I would have become. I was prepared to do what I had to do. But prior to your teaching me to fight, prior to your teaching me to defend myself, I had accepted that the only option would be eventually to sell my body. I did not wish to do it.”

  The idea of Agnes being forced to sell her warrior’s body, being forced to tear pieces off her strong, proud soul stirred anger in his blood. “This world is a scourge,” he said.

  Lazarus’s infusion of money h
ad brought technology, had given them the means to import goods used by their small nation that numbered no more than one thousand.

  But modernity brought its own vices, as well as its virtues. Their world was not perfect.

  But it was a small community, and when there was an injustice it was corrected, and quickly. Taking advantage of anyone poor was not permitted. And when there were resources to be shared around, no one was left without food. They shared among themselves. Their economy existed largely as one rooted in trade. And those who were weak were cared for.

  “You get no argument from me. I much prefer to wield a blade.”

  The car carried them directly to the department store they would be shopping from, and they were led into a private room at the very top of an exclusive elevator.

  The room was all brightly lit, with dark wood and walls of mirrors. There was already a slim dress rack with several selections on it. Everything prepared for their arrival, as he had commanded.

  A very slim woman dressed all in black appeared a moment later.

  “This is she?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Lazarus said, not bothering to answer in French or English. He used Lirian, and the woman would figure it out.

  Agnes, on the other hand, slipped easily into French. The woman took Agnes into the dressing room, and a moment later shrieked.

  She came out, speaking English to Lazarus. “Your creature has a knife on her person.”

  “I could not come unarmed!” The woman walked out from the curtain, and Agnes poked her head out behind her. “I will not use it on you.”

  Lazarus waved a hand. “She is not a creature. She is a warrior. And my fiancée. And you will relay none of the information about the knife, but will tell whoever asks you that she is lovely, and loved beyond all women. Or there will be no payment made to you, do you understand?”

  The woman’s cheeks went red. “Understood, Your Highness.”

  She disappeared again, and there was a rustling sound, and a moment later, Agnes was forced from behind the curtain.

  Agnes felt foolish. She had never worn anything like this. Usually, when she had been with her father, she had been dressed to look younger. Or to look like a boy. Either to be pitiful, or to be discreet. But she had never worn anything like this. The dress was red, bold, clinging to her body in such a way that she felt naked. Naked, standing before Lazarus, which made her feel like she was melting, possibly like she was on fire.

  “It is unseemly,” she said, turning and walking back behind the curtains and closing them definitively. She could nearly feel the indignation of the woman who had helped her dress, even from the other side of the curtains.

  She looked in the mirror, glad to be shielded from Lazarus’s all too keen gaze.

  She didn’t recognize the woman that she saw standing there. Who looked surprisingly thin and shapely all at once, and whose body seemed to be firmly entrenched in this world, while her hair remained wild and part of another place and time. And then suddenly, the curtains parted, and he was there.

  “This is hardly the loyalty you profess to bear, Agnes.”

  “I do not recall wearing gowns to be part of my training.”

  “Whatever my order.” He looked at her, hard, and she realized she was... Defying him. Something she had never done.

  Lazarus was a strong man, a strong leader, and he had no issues with people speaking their minds to him, and Agnes often shared her thoughts. But that was not the same as direct defiance.

  But maybe it was being here.

  In Paris.

  Where her old life had ended and her new life had begun.

  It had her on edge.

  He had her on edge.

  She turned to him. “I do not like it.”

  She felt more than naked before his burning gaze. She felt something else entirely, and she did not care for it in the least.

  “Agnes,” he said, his words as hard as his stare. “You will do this.”

  “I hardly think that I need trot out in front of you like a fashion model.”

  “I’ve no use for fashion models,” he said. His gaze was assessing. “It is not the fashion that I care for, but rather whether or not you play the part well.”

  “Am I not looking the part?”

  “We will see if that is so once your hair is dealt with.” He snapped his fingers. “On to the next garment.”

  Then the woman was back, the curtains closed again, and Agnes was peeled out of the dress, and the second was practically painted on over her body. It was green, and the fabric draped in places, and it made her look even curvier than the first, though it wasn’t quite as tight. The top draped down low, exposing the sides of her breasts.

  Lazarus looked at her in that, and her skin felt scalded. Because now he was looking at her as a woman, but still not as she would like. He was seeing her as a tool, and evaluating her appearance as if that would tell him how useful a tool she was.

  Far better to have him evaluate her skills with a sword than her body. For this hurt far too much.

  But the indignity did not stop. After that dress, there was a gold gown, with a skirt yet more voluminous, and she didn’t think she would have a hope of hiding a scabbard in the folds, and that was cheering to an extent. At least until Lazarus appraised her, with that same detached efficiency that she found exceedingly unnerving.

  “We will take them all,” he said. “And other supplemental pieces. You have a very fortunate figure, Agnes.”

  That made Agnes want to claw her scalding skin right off. “A fortunate figure?”

  “Yes. Every style seems to suit you.”

  “Maybe I don’t like them,” she said.

  “I do not care for your preferences, little one. It is mine that will be served. As I think you know.”

  An angry pulse beat between her thighs, and she could not reconcile it with the anger that flowed through her veins. That at least was the burden she had borne for years. This need of him. A need she had accepted could become nothing.

  And yet also, beneath that was loyalty. Loyalty she could not escape or deny. She had sworn her life to him. When she had sworn her allegiance to their nation. It was the first time she had ever been part of anything. Anything other than that accident of birth. Which was nothing true or real. Her father had not been a real father to her. He had loyalty to nothing but himself. And Agnes prized her word above all else, because when she had been brought into Lazarus’s life, she had been made a new creation. A woman who knew the keenest of loyalties. A woman who believed in truth. A woman who prized honesty. A woman who made it her mission, every day, to find her place in this broad world. She had made herself a woman of truth.

  Her father would have turned her into the same sort of scammer con artist that he was. Seeking only her own comfort, seeking only her own pleasure.

  She would have to remember that even now, that her own feelings were not what mattered. For that was a philosophy that carried you only to the depths of extreme selfishness, and then on to ruin. And she should know.

  Her father had used her as a pawn, and he would’ve signed her death warrant if not for Lazarus.

  “As you will it,” she responded.

  And that was how she found herself being bundled back into a car, feeling edgy and angry. But they did not go back toward the airport.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  “We are to make our debut as a couple.”

  “What is all this?” she asked. “Debuts and shows for the press. Lazarus, if you’re on a mission of blood, how does raising your profile in the world help you at all?”

  “It’s not that simple. And, as I said, it is not my goal to kill my brother. Rather I would like that he willingly step aside.”

  “And what is this game?”

  It was the deceit that truly got t
o her. And it was recognizing that Lazarus felt a sense of honor here, but that he was...

  She respected him, so much, and knew he was a good man, but she did wonder if he could always see clearly.

  How could you when your soul was shrouded in darkness?

  “I must put him at ease.”

  She swallowed hard, conscience pricking at her eyes. She understood where Lazarus was coming from. She knew him better than she knew any other person on the planet. He was her mentor. He was... Well, he was everything.

  They drove until they arrived at a lovely building, with the Eiffel Tower at its back. And just then she had a feeling that he was right, and she had not ever truly seen Paris before. He got out of the car, and opened the door for her, taking her arm and ushering her into a building that she was very truly not dressed for. But no one gave them a second glance, everyone committed to being the center of their own universe in this beautiful space filled with ancient stone, marble and gilded edges.

  They went to an elevator that opened with the touch of Lazarus’s hand, and it went straight to the very top of the building, the doors opening inside a brilliantly appointed penthouse.

  The views of the city were sweeping, and the entire wall of windows in this unexpectedly modern space stole the attention from the rest of the interior. For it was Paris that was the true decor. The Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine running through the lovely brick streets, and she could see artists with their canvases set up, ready to paint the world as they saw it, fashion mavens wandering the streets in long coats and large sunglasses, with brilliantly bored expressions.

  It was all there, and all very French. And it took her a moment to realize that the inside was no less chic. It was modern. Cement floors and countertops, black details and chrome lines.

  “Did you choose this?” she asked.

  If so, it was an insight into him that she never had before. Who he was away from the wood, away from his castle made of rock and stone.

  “No. I had an employee select something suitable. Others of my people will be here for you soon.”

  He was not wrong, as a moment later, a man and two women appeared, and she found herself being nearly bodily carried into a bathroom the size of an apartment she had once shared with her father. Lazarus was nowhere to be seen as she was stripped, reluctantly divested of her weapon and placed into a steaming tub of water.