The Secret Behind the Greek's Return
Page 17
His aim had shifted since the time he had decided to leave the forest and seek his revenge on Alexius. That first day, that meeting, she had been hiding in the woods. In the darkness with her sword ready to be drawn. But no fighting had ensued. They had simply talked. And in the times since, Lazarus had been opaque. Regarding his plans to return to the kingdom of his heart, of his blood, and regarding his intent when it came to his brother, Alexius.
If she were a woman who believed she could know the mysteries of a man like Alexius, she might have taken his connecting with his brother at face value.
But she was not. So, she did not.
“Well, I suppose a dagger...”
“We do not come to make open war,” he continued. “Revenge must be accomplished quietly.”
She stopped, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. “I thought you were through with revenge.”
“Did I say so?”
“No, but you...you spoke to him. You advised him to stay on with...with Tinley. To love her. I heard you.”
“It is true,” he said, “I did. And it softened what I am willing to consider. But he will still have a difficult choice to make. Reconciliation. And recognition of me as King. Or...”
“King?”
“Over Liri and the wood. To give our people that which they’ve been denied.”
“And why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“My plans are not for you to know, little one.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that. I could cut down any man where he stands, whether he was anticipating the attack or not. Small though I may be, I am deadly.”
“To be certain,” he said. “But little all the same. And while your skill with a sword is greatly appreciated, Agnes, it is not what I need of you at this time.”
“What is it you do need?”
“You’ve sworn your loyalty to me. Whatever my commandment, you shall fulfill, is that not the way?”
“Whatever your command,” she confirmed. “My life is yours.” And she meant it, from the deepest part of her soul.
“Good. You are not coming as my shield maiden.”
She blinked, feeling off-balance. “Then what am I? If not your protector, then what am I?”
“You will be coming as my fiancée.”
Agnes was stunned. She was... Well, she was barely a woman, in all actuality. She had been trained to follow the way of the sword. The way of battle. Her body was honed into one of ruthless athleticism, her instincts sharpened by years of training. Training that she had taken at Lazarus’s own hand. She did not know feminine ways. And often felt outside of the groups of brightly dressed women in their kingdom.
But then, she was an outsider.
Saved by Lazarus. Brought here.
He had incapacitated the five men surrounding her with ruthless brutality and speed. And while she had been grateful, she had also been left standing there alone.
Except for him.
He was dressed nicely, black pants and a crisp white shirt that was still somehow clean in spite of what had occurred. His clothing was improbably civilized. The man himself had the look of a barbarian. Black hair cut to ruthless precision, broad shoulders. His sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, revealing well-muscled forearms.
He was terrifying and beautiful. A savior and a potential danger.
And her father was dead. And even though her immediate threat had been dispatched, the danger out there in the world for a sixteen-year-old girl who knew nothing of life, who knew nothing other than what her con man father had taught her... There was nothing good to be had. She had known of a great many things she could do to survive, but she was loath to do any of them.
And so, when the mighty warrior had turned to leave, she had followed.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He didn’t spare her a glance. “Back to my kingdom. At least, at some point today, I will be.”
“Can I go with you?”
He had stopped. Then turned, regarding her with seriousness. And in that moment it had struck her that he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Beautiful and terrifying.
All at once.
“In my country there is a tradition. If one saves the life of another, that person swears that life to them. Your service. Is that the life you want?”
“Who talks like that?” she asked.
“I do.” His accent was heavy, but beautiful.
“Are you a King of some kind?”
His lips curved. “Of some kind.”
And she realized that she could be stepping out of one danger and into another entirely. But he had saved her life, and he didn’t have to. So at the very least, he must not intend to kill her. As for the rest... Well, she could cope.
And it had turned out that Lazarus was all that he claimed to be. Especially when it came to his expectations for her. When it came to his adherence to tradition. He had helped her become a warrior, an option that she had not thought existed for a woman such as her. And so she had sworn her loyalty to him. To their country. She had changed her every thought and expectation about her future, all for him.
“Your fiancée,” she said, feeling very much like she had reached the end of her loyalty in that moment. For that was... An impossibility. Something she knew was an impossibility. He was a King. She was a no one. From the streets of nowhere in particular. America originally, but then Italy, France, anywhere her father could run a scam. A girl who spoke bits and pieces of different languages but had never really owned any of them. Had never sworn allegiance to any one country, to any one leader. Until now. Until him.
And she had sworn with all of herself to protect him, because she could never be anything more.
It was foolish.
He was more than a man. He was something more like a god. And he was untouchable. Especially for her. She didn’t know his age. It had never seemed to matter. It just wasn’t relevant. For he was more than she was. More than she ever could be.
Untouchable. Remote and unreachable.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must’ve misunderstood.”
“I think we both know you did not. Your senses are finely honed, thanks to my training.”
“Yes. All glory to you,” she said, barely able to keep the sarcasm from her tone. She did mean that. Typically.
“And so, you see, this is what must occur.”
“No, I am afraid I do not see.”
“You are my right hand, Agnes. And have been these many years. This is my sworn duty to this country. To lay claim to the throne.”
Yes, she was his right hand. A tool. A weapon. A shield.
She was not a woman. Not to him.
And if Agnes had found it to be incredibly painful, it was only her problem. No one could solve it for her. And it was one she would simply have to bear. She had borne a great many disappointments in her life.
What was one more?
She loved him. With all that she was. Her soul, her heart, her sword. Her body.
She had discovered desire sparring with him, watching the play of his muscles as he moved. She had become acquainted with what it meant to be a woman.
He lit up the most womanly places in her, enflamed fantasies that she had not ever thought she’d entertained.
He did not see her as a woman, however, and she had accepted that.
She was his Agnes, and whatever she was, she was at least singular.
If she could never have him as a woman did a man, she would take that. She mattered. She was not like the endless parade of curvy beauties who had his attention for a night.
What she had was better.
She cared for him though, a great deal, even if she had accepted he would not be hers.
She had assumed then, wrongly, that Lazarus had decided on
a path of forgiveness. And it occurred to her now that she didn’t actually know what her King sought to do.
“It is not war. But a reckoning. A reclamation. Sad, indeed, that there may be bloodshed. Blood which I share.”
Agnes thought of King Alexius’s lovely bride-to-be. With her beautiful red hair. The future Queen Tinley. She was truly a lovely girl. And Agnes did not like the thought of something evil befalling her.
Agnes had only seen her once. From her position hiding in the forest. But Agnes had seen enough.
“You will spare Tinley.”
“I will spare him if he will give in to what I ask. What I demand. But it is rare that a King will give up his kingdom.”
“But you do not think the kingdom rightly belongs to him.”
“It was stolen. By my family. By my bloodline. Our bloodline. And it is up to me to make it right. I have sworn my loyalty here. Not to them. But here. To these people. It must be fulfilled. Those promises. That loyalty. If Alex wishes to make his reparation I do not see the point in taking anything by force. But if he does not...”
“I do understand,” she said. “But it seems that there could be...”
“This is not a con, Agnes. There is no negotiation to be made. No side alleys that one can take.” Her cheeks stung with heat.
And shame.
“I did not mean it in that way,” she said.
Her father had been a con artist; she was not.
“I know you did not. I’m simply pointing out that we are made from different molds, you and I.”
“I am made from the mold that you forged me in,” she said, tilting her chin up. “And I do wish that you would allow me to bring a sword.”
“As I said, we are not making open war.”
“But we are making war.”
The way that his mouth shifted seemed to confirm that, whether he would say it or not.
“You will be provided with a wardrobe. From Paris.”
“What do I care of Paris?” she asked. “I’ve seen it.”
“You’ve seen alleyways. It is not the same.”
It was not like Lazarus to take pains to remind her where she had come from. He was not usually cool. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what he said, when or how. Her loyalty was sworn. Her fate was set. Whether she agreed or not, it made no matter. Whether she wanted to or not, it had no bearing. She was Agnes, with no family name. Agnes of the Dark Wood. And nothing more.
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.”
Copyright © 2021 by Maisey Yates
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ISBN-13: 9780369706928
The Secret Behind the Greek’s Return
Copyright © 2021 by Michelle Smart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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