How to Love a Dangerous Rogue

Royals Renegades Book One

Lady Tansy Francis has been a loyal lady-in-waiting for most of her life. In the eyes of the ton, she has come to London for the formal betrothal announcement of the princess who is like a sister to her. But secretly, Tansy has become caught up in the plans for a revolution in her homeland. She finds herself with no choice but to join forces with the last person she should ever trust, a coldhearted man who is feared by many: the king to whom the princess is about to announce her betrothal.

King Maximilian of Varros has a reputation that precedes him as a brutal, callous ruler who has stopped at nothing to claim his throne. After many long years of war, he has forged peace in his kingdom. But that peace is being threatened, and he'll burn everything and everyone to the ground to save it. Only a few obstacles are standing in his path, and one of them happens to be a fearless lady-in-waiting he can't stop wanting.

Tansy's allegiance is to the princess, but King Maximilian has no qualms about seizing whatever he desires, consequences be damned. With the fires of revolution lit and chaos swirling around them, their passion is forbidden and yet impossible to resist. Trapped between old loyalties and new longings, Tansy has to make the most difficult choice of all—risk her heart for a dangerous rogue…or watch as he marries her best friend.

The Kingof Varros had arrived.

The approach of the carriage in the streets below had warned her, along with the rustle of frantic movement in the hall outside the chamber, the raised voices, the hastening footsteps. She hadn't expected him.

Not now. Not today. Not yet.

"Perdition," Tansy swore, then added another vicious Boritanian oath for good measure as she plumped the pillows beneath the counterpane on the princess's bed, a fine sheen of sweat on her brow.

She didn't want to see the king without Princess Anastasia acting as a necessary barrier. But it would seem, like much of her life, Tansy didn't have a choice in the matter.

For in that moment, the door opened to admit him.

She moved away from the bed instantly, as if the empty piece of furniture had singed her hand, guilt warring with trepidation within her.

King Maximilian was obscenely tall and broad, seeming to take up half the chamber with his entrance. His size, in this instance, was fortuitous, as it meant the guard in the hall couldn't spy the empty bed in which the princess was meant to be reclining as an invalid, nor the pillows that were a poor imitation of her feminine form.

The door clicked closed, and Tansy watched as the king raised a massive paw to latch it in place, trapping her with him.

Alone.

He turned to her slowly, his brown eyes dark and unreadable, mouth grim and unsmiling. "You've a vicious tongue, Lady Tansy."

His English bore the traces of a Varrosian accent but was otherwise flawless.

Sweet Deus above, had he heard her cursing? How? She had been muttering to herself, not shouting. Tansy felt light-headed at the prospect, knowing full well that he could punish her for daring to utter such an oath in the presence of the king.

Belatedly, she remembered herself, dipping into a curtsy. "Your Majesty."

"Repeat it," he ordered curtly.

Tansy had just straightened to her full height, which wasn't considerable under any circumstances, and most certainly not when in the presence of King Maximilian, who towered over her as mightily as any mountain. But she dipped again, offering him a protracted curtsy, making extra effort.

"Your Majesty," she said.

"Not that." He flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. "What came before it."

Curse the devil. He had heard. She didn't dare repeat the Boritanian oath. Literally translated to English, it meant May God rot your cock.

Decidedly not the sort of thing one said to a king, particularly one as menacing and imposing as the monarch before her.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty," she offered, bowing her head in a show of humility that she hoped would appease him. "I said nothing else."

He had drawn nearer. Soundlessly, which was impressive for a man so large in stature. With her head bowed, she saw the perfectly gleaming black boots—as immense as every other part of him—a mere foot away. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

"You dare to lie to me?" he demanded, his voice deceptively low.

It was the quietness that frightened her most. The stories of the horrors King Maximilian had visited upon his enemies were legion. He had battled for years to emerge the victor and assume the throne that was rightfully his, sparing no one.

Ruthless.

Pitiless.

Unfeeling.

Those were a scant few of the whispers Tansy had heard about him.

"I would never presume to lie to you, Your Majesty," she fibbed, head still bent, praying he would cease toying with her.

"Look at me, Lady Tansy."

She didn't want to. Particularly not given the king's troubling proximity. So near that she could detect his scent, spice and musk with a hint of leather and citrus. A pleasant scent. Altogether not one she would have expected of a man like him, but she had never previously been near enough to take note. She supposed it stood to reason that brutal warriors might smell as lovely as anyone else.

Tansy took a deep, shaky breath. "Forgive me, Your?—"

"I said, look at me," he interrupted, enunciating each of the words as sharply as if he wielded a whip.

She lifted her head and wished she hadn't. He was even closer than she had supposed, presiding over her like one of the old gods her ancestors had worshiped. Fierce and fearsome, his face a collection of angular blades—wide jaw, high cheekbones, a stern nose. A fine scar marred the skin above one of his slashing brows, a shocking hint of a past vulnerability. His black hair brushed over broad shoulders, twin patches of silver at his temples. He had amber flecks in the dark-brown depths of his eyes, and his mouth was almost cruel to look upon, sensual and full lips so harsh and unyielding.

And then those lips moved. "Say it again, Lady Tansy."

She swallowed hard, her stomach knotting. Now she had done it. All these years of avoiding the wrath of the usurper Boritanian King Gustavson, and one foolish oath had ruined her.

In a quiet voice, she repeated the curse and then waited, shoulders tense, for a blow. For a cuff to the side of the head for her insolence. Everyone knew how vicious King Maximilian was.

"Are you a sorceress, madam?" he growled, the tone of his voice low and deep.

The question took her by surprise.

Confusion made her brow furrow. "Of course not, Your Majesty."

"Good, for I do not wish for my cock to rot off."

She stared at him, aghast. King Maximilian did not jest. Did he? No, it simply wasn't possible. And there was nary a hint of levity in his immovable countenance. Was there? The man could have been carved from marble, though she very much doubted he would be cool and smooth to the touch. Something told her he would be quite hot.

At the errant and most unwelcome thought, she nearly choked. The result was a strangled sound that was most impolite.

"Are you well?" he asked, his gaze narrowing.

No, she was not well. She was alone with a merciless tyrant who would soon be marrying the princess who had become like a sister to her over the years she had spent as Princess Anastasia's lady-in-waiting. Tansy couldn't bear to hold his gaze. Her head dropped, her gaze falling to the carpet.

"I beg Your Majesty's forgiveness," she mumbled, still stricken by her lapse.

How could she have been so foolish as to exclaim the vile oath aloud?

She blamed the hours she had spent waiting for Princess Anastasia's return, fretting and fearing on her behalf.

"I asked if you are well," he reminded pointedly.

She was aware of him shifting; there was a rustle of fabric, his long arm stretching toward her slowly.

Would he strike her now, then?

"Very well, thank you, Your Majesty," she managed, scarcely moving her lips.

"Hmm," was all he said, his voice fashioned of steel and ice. And then his finger was on her chin, rough and firm and yet surprisingly gentle, urging it upward. Making her meet his gaze again. "I won't hurt you, if that is what you fear. Does King Gustavson strike the women in his court?"

The bloodied lashes she had tended on the princess's back rose in Tansy's mind, and she had to bite back the bile rising in her throat. She should lie, for the tale was not hers to tell. But with his fathomless gaze holding her in thrall, she couldn't seem to find the words. Still, she needed to say something. The king had spoken to her. Had asked her a question.

"I—" she began, only for his finger to settle in the bow of her upper lip, staying further explanation.

"You've answered me well enough," he interrupted.

As quickly as he had reached for her, he withdrew his touch, before spinning on his heel and stalking toward the door. He unlatched and wrenched it open. Then, he strode out, closing it smartly at his back, somehow taking the air from the room with him.

Tansy stared at the paneled door, holding her breath.

The only sounds were more muffled voices and booted footsteps disappearing down the hall, both finally supplanted by the rhythmic ticking of a mantel clock. The jangling of tack interrupted, rising from the street below. And still the door remained closed.

Tansy waited, lip tingling where King Maximilian had laid his finger.