Diamond in the Rough

Summary: Bonding.

Author’s Note: I’m having a hard time putting this down, even though I have a whole mess of other stories that need updating for all my pairings, it’s just sad. But this one might be the easiest to eventually finish, and I’m having fun with it. My muses want these two together. Badly.

Logan was a stubborn bastard.

The realization nagged Remy and he practically chanted it to himself as he stomped through the castle.

“Victor,” he barked.

“Aye, Highness?”

“Where is he?”

“Out an’ about.”

“Ya could be more specific.” His red irises practically burned Victor. The tall blond’s eyebrows drew together.

“In the brush. Not far from here.” Remy gritted his teeth.

“Did it ever occur t’you dat his Highness might not be ready for a jaunt out into the brush?”

“Nay, sire.”

“You’re his bodyguard.”

“I ain’t his nanny, and he ain’t wearin’ nappies, sire.”

“He’s injured!” Remy hissed. His fists balled themselves at his sides. Victor was nonplussed, even though Remy could easily recommend his punishment for insolence to one of the crowned heads of the realm.

“He walked out of here with no difficulty at all. And, Highness?”

“What!”

“I don’t know how ya suggest I might’ve stopped him. He’s a prince. And he’s ornery. If ya feel ya’d have more success tellin’ him what he can’t do, then be my guest and give me some lessons.” Victor shrugged. Remy fumed.

*

Remy spent another sleepless night fretting over Logan when he returned to his chamber. By the time Remy heard the mattress creak beside him, daylight was sneaking in through the crack in the curtains.

His eyes snapped open, and Remy bolted up from the cot. He saw Logan’s form sprawled on the bed, and his eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

“Damn it,” Remy spat. He fumbled in the still dark chamber and found the book of matches. He lit a fat red wax pillar and examined Logan’s face in the dim light.

He was breathing a bit raggedly from the effort it took to return to his bed. Frustration swamped Remy, coupled with his exhaustion. But his gut twisted in panic when he saw Logan’s poor state.

“Where de hell were you?” he accused.

“Down the hall,” Logan croaked.

“Why?”

“Wanted t’let ya sleep.”

“Deserting me when yer s’posed ta stay in bed is yer idea of lettin’ me sleep?” Remy’s jaw worked.

He fought back a frisson of anger and confusion. Didn’t Logan have any semblance of how worried he’d been? Remy tugged his hair to busy his hands so he wouldn’t wring Logan’s neck.

“Ya didn’t have ta stay. Jean-Paul and Pietro could have checked in on me,” Logan said simply, but secretly he was glad that Remy stayed in his room. His memory was patchy, but Logan wondered if the voice and the hands that soothed him had been his.

Remy was making that harder to discern now, however, since he looked livid.

“Ya couldn’t have had any good reason t’leave dis room in yer condition, chere.”

“No? I think my reason’s more than acceptable.”

“Enlighten me, den.”

“Etienne and I had a little chat.”

Logan suddenly felt sorry for Remy and regretted his approach to pointing out that his son was gone. Remy paled and his eyes filled with terror. He spun around and searched the room, and Logan could see shame flooding his face that he hadn’t inquired about his son’s absence from the chamber sooner.

“Holy…!”

“Remy,” Logan urged.

“He’s not…where is he? Where’s my boy?”

“In his room,” Logan explained. Remy’s body was taut and he drew in harsh breaths that made his chest heave dangerously while he tried to master his shock. He closed his eyes and a small sound of relief escaped him.

Logan watched Remy collapse back onto the cot, completely overwhelmed.

“I took him back because he woke up, afraid. I didn’t want ta wake you.”

“But you should have!” Remy snapped, looking up from where he’d been leaning his face in his hands. “Ya always wake me when it concerns my son!”

“I spoke with him.” Logan turned slightly in the bed to better face Remy, even though the shift in position was painful. “I decided it was time, and I think Etienne felt that way, too.”

“What did he say?”

“That he was sorry.”

Some of the tension twisting Remy’s gut left him.

“And that was after we discussed his feelings about me keepin’ ya here,” Logan added thoughtfully. “I wronged him. I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’ understand.”

“I was so concerned about trying ta make ya well. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t the only one worried about you.” Logan’s hazel eyes were ringed with dark circles, made more imposing by the bandaged wound above them. “And that was very, very selfish of me.”

It gradually sank in what Logan was trying to tell him.

“Why?”

“Because…I didn’t want ta watch ya leave.”

The words were out in the open, and Logan felt raw and exposed. Remy’s eyes held so much confusion in their depths, and Logan turned away from him then, again ignoring the pain. He couldn’t bear it if he stared any longer and found scorn.

With his back turned and his body curled on its side, Logan looked like a punished little boy. Remy swallowed as a rash of prickles swarmed over him.

He’d caused that uncertainty in Logan, and Remy realized how badly he’d wronged him, then, during their initial introduction.

Logan wasn’t one of a tide of status-seeking women who lusted after Remy’s beauty and power. But Remy treated him like one, and discarded him just as easily. He was so ashamed.

Logan felt the slight chill of his chamber replaced by warmth as the covers were drawn gently over him and tucked in against his back.

“I know what it’s like to watch someone leave, chere. Dere ain’t a day or night when I don’t t’ink about Bella. Etienne’s maman. My wife.”

Logan shivered slightly at the feel of Remy’s hand settling over his shoulder. He stroked the length of his upper arm just to acquaint himself with the solid feel of Logan’s warm skin, and to his satisfaction, he felt him relax beneath his touch.

“She was beautiful and smart.”

“I know,” Logan murmured. “I see that in yer son.”

“Ev’ry time I met a new woman wantin’ ta marry me, I looked for Bella in each and ev’ry one of ‘em. I never found her dere.”

“You never will,” Logan mused drowsily. Remy’s caresses were putting him to sleep. “She was special.”

“Oui.” Remy’s eyes stung with the memory.

“She’d want ya ta find someone t’love again,” Logan murmured. He smothered a yawn. “Even…if it ain’t…a squat…scruffy runt.” His voice drifted off.

Remy was grateful Logan couldn’t see his shocked expression. He was sound asleep.

*

That was two days ago.

Two insufficient days of too little bed rest. Two days of waking up to find the space next to him empty both mornings because Logan was such a blasted early riser. There would be no trace of him except for discarded bandages and a slightly emptied potion bottle as Logan used up the painkiller.

The housekeeping staff wisely kept mum when Remy ordered them to remove the cot in his room.

Each night, he listened to Logan’s grumbling complaints that he wasn’t a baby. Each night, Remy helped change his dressings and checked his stitches for signs of infection. And each night, he waited for Logan to fall asleep, staring at the mesmerizing, crackling flames in the grate until his hazel eyes were so heavy lidded they dropped.

And each night, he crawled onto the bed and laid atop the covers, falling asleep next to Logan’s slumbering bulk. Etienne visited Logan during the day as Nanny allowed, and his son was satisfied that his new friend was recuperating. He didn’t cry out in the dark anymore, and Remy didn’t feel as compelled to camp out in his son’s room to keep the monsters at bay. He’d appeared to have banished them himself.

*

Logan recalled the first morning that he awoke with an unaccustomed, solid warmth at his back.

Remy.

One long, lean arm roped with muscle was draped over Logan’s waist from behind, and Remy’s body was wrapped around Logan’s, curled like a letter ‘C’. Remy’s breath misted his nape, and Logan’s body reacted violently to the tantalizing sensation.

Remy was a heavy sleeper. Each morning, Logan gently crept out of bed and carefully tucked Remy back beneath the covers before he left the chamber. Part of him longed to remain there…

But Logan refused to give in to a selfish whim, even though Remy’s sleeping scent and heat were intoxicating.

He needed air. Logan chose to go out.

He hastily donned old riding leathers and a careworn shirt that would have made Jean-Paul and Pietro weep and he swept out of the castle.

He communed with the creatures in the brush, but they had no answers for him.

Logan only knew one thing with certainty: He had to watch Remy walk away now that he was well and reunited with his son, and it hurt like hell.

*

“Papa, where are you going?”

“Outside, petit.”

“Can I come?”

“Papa needs t’find de prince, chere.”

“He’s my friend, I want to look for him, too!” Etienne cried petulantly.

Remy was reluctant to allow it. He planned on giving Logan a blistering that wasn’t mean for young, impressionable ears.

“Please, Papa?”

The pout. Damn it.

“Have Nanny change those shoes. Put on boots.” Etienne scampered back to his suite with delight.

Remy rode with Etienne in front of him again, this time on a docile roan. He took the same path from his ill-fated ride and followed the same twists and turns, passing familiar trees and rocks.

“Kits, Papa.”

“Hm?”

“Foxes,” Etienne said, pointing. Remy saw them dart out and chase some small rodents into a hole.

The forest had a charged feeling that made Remy’s hair stand on end. He couldn’t explain it. Scents and sounds were sharper, and he felt an odd tingle of anticipation.

He heard Logan before he saw him once they reached the clearing.

The ground around Logan was drenched in barely filtered sunlight as it crept between the tree branches and dappled the grass.

Remy couldn’t believe what he saw.

Creatures. Many of them were surrounding him, even flocking to him as he stood, murmuring to a finch that was perched on his finger. Hares scuffled over the dry leaves and rubbed their long-eared heads against his boots. Nearby, a stray hound yawned, showing rows of jagged teeth. His tail thumped the ground in greeting as Logan knelt down to scratch it between its ears. The animal looked like a stray.

More disconcerting was that animals who were natural enemies commingled around him without conflict. Predators didn’t bear down on prey.

“Papa, look,” Etienne whispered. “How is he doing that?”

“I don’t know, petit.” Remy didn’t recognize his own voice.

Logan had removed his bandages to give his wound some fresh air, hating the way the strips chafed. The stitches were still angry and puckered, but his skin was less bruised and his eyes were more alert.

He turned and saw that he wasn’t alone.

“Mornin’, Highness.” Etienne giggled.

“Why is he calling you that, Papa?”

“Because he’s a prince,” Logan answered for him, approaching with the finch now perched on his shoulder. Remy felt a hint of irritation at the nickname.

Logan had called his name in his sleep while the pain had gripped him. Anything else seemed wrong to his ears.

“A certain sire should be back in bed.”

“It’s too beautiful of a day. Etienne agrees with me. Dontcha?”

“Uh-huh,” he said solemnly, but mischief danced in the boy’s eyes when Logan reached up for him and carefully lifted him down from the horse.

“Etienne, non! We ain’t gonna stay, get back on! And you,” Remy warned, “need t’get back on yer own horse and head back wit’ us. We came t’find you.”

“Ya found me. Rest a bit.” He reached into his pocket and handed a cloth-wrapped item to Etienne. “Here. Give some to those birds. They don’t like t’be chased. They’ll come to you.” Etienne unwrapped a hunk of slightly stale bread and automatically began breaking off crumbs. He scattered them for a flock of sparrows that landed in the nearby bushes, chattering and raising a racket. A few hopped forward when he knelt and held out a bit of bread in his palm. Etienne’s face was rapt with delight.

Remy fumed. He glared at Logan. Logan shrugged.

“Ya can sit up there all day, or come down with me and my friend here and make a few introductions.”

Remy climbed down from his mount and joined Logan’s side. The urge to smack him was strong, but no more than the way his hands wanted to reach for him again, to touch that scar and trace its rough texture, or to tug those errant locks of hair back behind his ears where they belonged. Even his hair wasn’t obedient or reasonable.

“Yer a hardheaded, stubborn bastard.”

“Been savin’ that up since ya woke up?”

“You shoulda still been in bed when dat t’ought was occurrin’ t’me.”

“So I was supposed ta be a sleepin’ stubborn bastard.”

“Would’ve had a different impression of ya if ya had. Maybe a more flatterin’ one.”

Logan scratched his ear and avoided Remy’s eyes. His tone was casual. “Maybe I’m hearin’ things, but why do I get the impression ya seem worried about me?”

Remy made a sound of disgust. It goes without saying. His hands were itching to smack him.

“What’s more,” Logan mused, “ya seem ta care a lot about my well-bein’ now that yer about ta leave the palace.”

“Eh?”

“Yer arm.” Logan nodded to the one in question. It was true. Remy’s splint was off. Aside from the occasional twinge, he had full use of it again.

Remy watched Logan move about the clearing, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. The outdoors seemed to replenish and strengthen him, and Remy realized he was more at home in the woods than he was within four walls.

Remy gave in, resigned. He didn’t even raise objections when Etienne sat perched atop Logan’s shoulders, making him tall enough to pick some apples. The three princes enjoyed their afternoon, joking and watching the creatures around them in their own habitat.

Remy sat absently, flexing and releasing his fingers. He was fully recovered. Of course, it was time to leave. He’d overstayed his welcome long enough, surely.

A few feet away, Logan was paring apple slices and removing the seeds with his knife. Etienne munched some and listened to Logan’s explanation that the green berries they saw a few feet away weren’t all right to eat. His son leaned in companionably toward him and peppered him with questions.

A couple of hours later, they returned home. Logan was reluctant to go back; Remy was slightly relieved. More frustrating than having his original intent to force Logan back to bed thwarted was watching his son spend so much time with him.

Remy was jealous. More appalling? That he didn’t know which one of them he was more jealous of. Logan appeared to be enjoying himself as Etienne drew him pictures in the dirt with a stick, obviously showing him something he learned during his lessons.

Yes. Leaving Towering Trees would be harder than he thought.

*

So Remy made excuses. He remained another week, using the excuse that he wanted to make sure Logan was one hundred percent. But his demeanor was scoffing and flip.

“Can’t rely on ya ta take care of yerself, homme.”

“That’s what Jean-Paul and Pietro are for. According ta them, I can’t even dress myself without supervision.”

“Handy excuse,” Remy muttered. He was more than aware of what “supervision” from Logan’s valets entailed. And in his current state, frustrated and needing more answers, it was growing harder even to ignore the grooms’ attentions. Remy almost welcomed their overtures. It had been so long since he’d taken a partner to bed.

But he felt an odd frisson of jealousy, suddenly, as he pictured Logan in the tub in his stead. It was his broad, hairy chest they swabbed with damp rags and lathered generously with soap. They massaged their hands through unruly, thick black waves instead of chestnut ripples in Remy’s mind’s eye, and their charge leaned his head back against Jean-Paul’s chest while Pietro tugged on and kneaded the long toes of his wide feet, blowing cool air between them.

Remy felt an unwelcome pull in his cock and his face grew hot. The fantasy, once given its head, wouldn’t leave him alone.

Would Logan moan with need as Jean-Paul kneaded the generous, hard crowns of his shoulders and the taut cords of muscle in his neck? Would he shiver at the feel of his valet’s breath whispering over the shell of his ear as he asked him if the water was still warm enough, sire? Would he allow Pietro to progress to kneading his ankles and tight calves to work out a knot, enjoying the decadent feel of his damp, slick hair plastered to his skin from the bath? Would his valet’s fingertips tickle the vulnerable, tender flesh of the back of his knee, painstakingly creeping to his inner thigh to stroke the satiny smoothness? Would Jean-Paul tell him huskily that his back wasn’t clean yet, would he like him to scrub it for him, just for the excuse to see him lean forward, water receding tantalizingly from his waistline and making the seam of his crease barely visible from beneath the cooling water?

Would he tell him that he’d missed a spot?

Would Logan agree with him that he had?

Would Jean-Paul drown in the intensity of those hazel eyes, their warm amber flecked with green and gold? Would he forget himself one final, crucial time?

Remy clenched his fists, and he couldn’t focus on opening the scroll in his hands.

No.

Yes…

Logan had called Remy his last resort. Surely he couldn’t feel that way. He couldn’t.

Yes. He could. Remy’s breathing quickened.

Why the hell was he so tense all of the sudden?

Would four hands abandon pretense at bathing the prince, and take more than the usual liberties, lingering on the contoured planes of his hard chest, tracing the curve of his navel, running fingertips over the crease of his elbow or the sensitive skin of his inner wrist? Would two sets of light blue eyes gaze lustfully and adoringly at their sovereign and would both voices promise that none of his needs would be overlooked, no matter how detailed?

Remy laid the scroll on the bed and his hands shook as he fumbled with the buttons and ties on his trousers. His manhood throbbed for release, and he had to give it attention, at the expense of walking around with an unsatisfied erection and a headache for the rest of the evening.

Etienne was ensconced in his room, taking a nap. Logan was elsewhere in the castle, for some reason avoiding him, which bothered Remy even more.

But in the meantime, he had privacy. The column of flesh felt hot and stiff, and his flesh quivered as he grasped it in his fist.

The images of Logan lolling in the tub, being bathed, then pleasured by his grooms was sweet torture. Remy stroked and tugged, building up a rhythm, and he groaned with need.

Jean-Paul’s hand flattened against Logan’s chest, toying with the whorls of damp, matted hair until he discovered the stiff pearl of Logan’s nipple and began to tease it. Pietro had abandoned his feet and was tracing the ripples of Logan’s abdominal muscles with his fingertips. Logan’s hips jerked at the hot, slick feel of Pietro’s mouth covering his other nipple, laving it in lazy circles with the very tip of his tongue.

A bead of slick precum oozed from the pucker at the tip of his cock. Remy dragged his thumb through it and rubbed it along his length, changing the friction. He closed his eyes and let the images in his mind feed the grip of his hand. Tension and pressure built up in his flesh, swelling and jerking. His abdomen flexed with each pull and the delicious sensations it caused, and Remy was close, so close…

It wasn’t until Remy placed himself in the tub with Logan, his own lips sliding over Logan’s neck and whispering lusty secrets that he gave himself over to it in full. He felt a tingling in his lower spine that pulsed in his gut, and then his climax gripped him hard. His sharp exhalation of breath was louder than he wanted it, but he ringed himself in his hand and jerked himself those last few, quick times to prolong the delicious shocks as long as he could. He panted in the silence of the empty chamber, eyes still closed, and his senses took in the feel of damp stickiness on his belly. A dab of seed stained his tunic. Remy hastily shucked it and searched for another one in the trunk.

Remy miserably wondered to himself how Logan’s lips felt. It frustrated him that now, might never find out.

That shouldn’t bother him…should it?