A Bride for the Lost King Read online

  “Have I met with your approval, my Lord?”

  “You please me,” Lazarus said.

  He approached Agnes, and he heard her breath catch in her throat, saw her pulse quicken in her neck. “Now you must only put on a convincing performance as a woman who is madly in love with me.”

  “I would like to eviscerate you with my teeth presently, so it will be a challenge.”

  And in spite of himself, he felt a kick of lust hit hard right in his stomach. He would like very much to have her use her teeth on him. And he would use his own on her in return.

  He didn’t know where these thoughts were coming from. These aberrations. He was not a man who was controlled by his appetites. They were an appetite like any other, and when he felt the need, he indulged them. But that was it. Right now, his desire for her was intruding. In ways he did not appreciate or accept.

  The Heirs of Liri

  Two royal brothers, but only one throne...

  When King Alexius de Prospero ascended to the throne of Liri, he proudly took on the role. But marrying off gorgeous Tinley Markham is his biggest royal test, especially when their chemistry proves impossible to ignore...

  Wild Prince Lazarus plans to rise from the shadows and claim back his rightful throne. But as the days go on, his convenient fiancée, Agnes, may prove a tempting distraction as he starts seeing her in a totally new light!

  Read Alexius and Tinley’s story in

  His Majesty’s Forbidden Temptation

  Available now!

  And read Lazarus and Agnes’s story in

  A Bride for the Lost King

  Available now!

  Maisey Yates

  A Bride for the Lost King

  Maisey Yates is a New York Times bestselling author of over one hundred romance novels. Whether she’s writing strong, hardworking cowboys, dissolute princes or multigenerational family stories, she loves getting lost in fictional worlds. An avid knitter with a dangerous yarn addiction and an aversion to housework, Maisey lives with her husband and three kids in rural Oregon. Check out her website, maiseyyates.com.

  Books by Maisey Yates

  Harlequin Presents

  His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

  Crowned for My Royal Baby

  Once Upon a Seduction...

  The Prince’s Captive Virgin

  The Prince’s Stolen Virgin

  The Italian’s Pregnant Prisoner

  The Queen’s Baby Scandal

  Crowning His Convenient Princess

  The Heirs of Liri

  His Majesty’s Forbidden Temptation

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  For Henry Cavill, in The Witcher, who really made me think a lot about the virtues of sword fighting.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EXCERPT FROM CLAIMING HIS CINDERELLA SECRETARY BY CATHY WILLIAMS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “WHICH SWORD SHALL I take with me to meet your brother, Highness?” Agnes examined her wall of weapons critically.

  She was the sworn protector of Lazarus, King of the secret kingdom at the center of the Dark Wood, in the country of Liri. A fairy tale, she would have said, something out of a picture book, until she had been brought to see it with her own eyes.

  A country within a country, comprised of a village that looked as if it were part of another time, and a palace that was set deep within a mountain.

  Of course, there were modern conveniences, even if hidden. Access to internet via fiber-optic cables, hot water and toaster pastries—which were her favorite.

  The people in the wood were safe, kept so by the legends that surrounded it.

  And outside was Liri.

  Liri, ruled by King Alexius, Lazarus’s brother. The brother he’d been separated from when he’d wandered into the woods as a boy and been half savaged by wolves, saved by Agamemnon, the ruler of the woods at the time.

  In Lazarus he’d seen greatness. In him, he’d seen the salvation of his people, occupied and kept down by the Lirians, before they were driven to the brink of extinction.

  As far as all the world knew, their kingdom did not exist.

  And until a few weeks ago, the world had not known Lazarus existed.

  He had traveled freely, under an assumed name, and no one had ever suspected he was the long-lost prince thought long-ago dead.

  But Lazarus had been planning revenge against his family for years. In fact, he had been intent on stealing his brother’s fiancée. Literally stealing her. Right from the woods, until an interaction between the two of them had stayed his hand.

  He had promised the previous leader, Agamemnon, that he would avenge the people. For as she was sworn to Lazarus, so was he to the previous leader of the people. He had promised that he would return their people to their rightful place on the throne. For it was not Lazarus and Alex’s family who held that right, but the people of the trees. They had been killed. They had been weakened and shunted off into the forest, but they had not diminished. No, there they had grown. She was not of them. Not by blood. But it didn’t matter. Not to them. It was the outcasts that they took. Those who were left to their own devices. Those who were in need.

  Like her.

  “You shall not be bringing a sword, Agnes.”

  When Lazarus made a pronouncement, in that deep voice like velvet dipped in gold, she never argued.

  She liked the way he said her name. Ah-nes. As if she were something exotic and not something neighboring an agate. Which was how she always thought of her name.

  But she did not like what he’d just said.

  “I cannot travel without a sword, Highness, for it is my sworn duty to protect you. A blood oath bonds us.” She tilted her chin upward, meeting his gaze.

  Lazarus was tall, over six-five, with the sculpted face of an avenging angel. At least in part. It was his scars—deep, lashing and cruel, covering half of that face—that gave him the manner of devil. Dark eyes, hard as obsidian, and a mouth that turned over into cruel with the slightest curve. He was not a man who looked as if he needed protection.

  But in her world, in their world, in the wood, when a person was saved from death, they swore fealty to their savior. As she had done to Lazarus when she was just sixteen, and in the eight years since.

  They were bonded by something deeper than blood. He had risked his life to save hers. Her blood, her very breath, belonged to him.

  Though she needed a sword if she were to be effective.

  “Bringing a sword into the palace is an act of war, Agnes,” he said, as if she did not know.

  “It is an act of caution. You do not know your brother well.”

  Agnes could not deny that she felt a slight bit of relief hearing him speak in a way that seemed to indicate he would not be waging war.

  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 futu
re 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.