Diamond in the Rough

Finery and Fanfare

Summary: It isn’t love at first sight. Far from it. It’s a disaster…

Author’s Note: Okay, I’m having fun with this. There’s something wrong with me, but I love fairy tales, and it’s fun to write an adult one where bizarre things happen in it from time to time. And a warning, Remy will start off as something of an asshole. I love writing assholes.

His father was as good as his word.

“Rise and shine, Sunshine,” Jean-Paul crowed cheerfully. Pietro drew the curtains back, letting stark sunshine pour into the room.

“Gorgeous morning,” he announced. “Make the most of it. Don’t just lie there, I’ve got your bath ready.”

“It’s too damned early. Even the birds’re still in bed,” Logan grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He obediently rolled to a sitting position, having no problem with that. Unlike his friends at the tavern, he didn’t get drunk from too much alcohol or suffer the accompanying hangovers the next day. Bobby cursed his luck but still tried time and time again to see how many drinks of whisky and ale it would take to stagger Prince James Logan of the Towering Trees.

“That’s no way to talk for a prince,” Jean-Paul scolded him as he rummaged through Logan’s trunks. “This might do,” he murmured thoughtfully, pulling out a shirt and shaking it out.

“Might do for what?”

“Meeting your betrothed,” he said.

“Pfft…might as well just meet her like this. She’ll just run shrieking away like the rest,” Logan shrugged as he rose from bed in the altogether.

Jean-Paul silently drooled. Pietro nearly swooned, staring at him openmouthed.

Logan’s previous prospects didn’t know what they had missed. In his daily rough garb and usual layers of dirt and grit, no one could truly see the treasure underneath. His body was a melody of muscular curves and plains, sinewy, streamlined and beautiful. His chest and limbs were matted with a soft layer of crisp, dark hair, and his skin was firm, supple and tanned.

His manhood was flaccid, still slumbering for the time being, but there was, for lack of a better phrase, quite a bit of it, begging to be touched…stroked…used…

Jean-Paul snapped out of it. “Would you like breakfast brought up, sire?”

“Eh. Whatever. Do whatever ya want.”

“That defeats the purpose. You’re the prince, we technically have to do whatever you want,” Pietro argued with him as he continued to pull selections from the trunks. Jean-Paul beckoned to the scullery boys in the hall to bring in the tub of steaming water.

The next hour was a blur. Jean-Paul wrestled him into the tub and made generous use of the scented soap, scrubbing Logan’s thick, tangled dark hair. Logan grumbled beneath his ministrations, cursing loudly when he rinsed it and dribbled some of the foam into his eyes.

“Unless ya wanna end up drawn an’ quartered, ya don’t wanna come near me with that again,” he warned him, rubbing his eyes. They still stung.

“Don’t be such a baby, your Highness.” He rubbed him down with more of the soap, and this time Logan relaxed beneath his massaging hands and the stroke of the nubby washcloth. Pietro attacked his feet, buffing the callouses with a pumice stone and trimming his toenails. They were absolutely shameful. Pietro had an obsession with feet.

“Thought ya wanted me ta get outta bed. This is gonna put me ta sleep,” Logan groaned, lounging back until his head leaned against Jean-Paul’s shoulder. Jean-Paul’s nostrils flared and his eyes dilated with lust. The feel of Logan’s warm skin beneath his hands was undoing him. “Think ya already soaped my chest.”

He ceased his fascination with Logan’s nipple. “Erm…sorry, your Highness. I believe you’re right.”

Pietro glared up at him from his task of smoothing lotion onto Logan’s feet and rubbing it in. He was taking his time with the chore and gently blew cool air between his toes, making Logan shudder.

“Shouldn’t you be getting him something to wear?” Jean-Paul accused as he ran his fingers through Logan’s hair, rubbing his scalp to dislodge any lingering dandruff. He kneaded behind his ears, loosening the knots of tension that formed there while he pondered his impending engagement.

“You were going to order his tray,” he countered.

“No. YOU were going to order his tray.” Pietro didn’t realize his hands had traveled up to Logan’s ankles. He was rubbing the pressure points and stroking the skin of Logan’s calf, making the burly prince stifle a moan of arousal.

Things were getting a tad too close for comfort…

Damn his grooms! Logan extricated his foot from Pietro’s grasp, jerking it back into the tub as he stood. His nipples were stiff little pebbles, he was erect, and he left the tub in a fit of pique. He lunged for a towel hanging on the back of his vanity chair. “Go. Food. Then clothes.” He fanned them away and rummaged in the armoire for his robe. It was a serviceable garment made of black silk, completely untrimmed by any decoration. They stared at him, dumbfounded as he donned it. “GO!”

They vamoosed in a flurry, bickering the entire way out the door.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Artie, one of his squires as he popped his head in through the door.

“Yer askin’ the wrong person, kid,” Logan said, shaking his head. “Sheesh.”

“You gonna have another lady come t’visit?” he asked. Artie adored Logan. Legions of children followed him throughout the courtyard whenever Logan made his rounds and visited the citizens for their taxes.

“You know more than I do about that, squirt.” He reached for a bottle of cologne and tugged the boy over by the sleeve. “Here. Now ya can smell good fer the ladies, too.”

“Yuck!”

“Might change yer tune one of these days, kid.” Logan sighed, then set down the expensive glass bottle. He hated the stuff as much as Artie did, and he knew Pietro or Jean-Paul would drench him in it when they returned.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“When you marry, will you still be able to come out and play?”

“I’ll try,” he shrugged, but Logan sat at the vanity and took the boy’s hands, squeezing them. “I’ll always try to make time for my people, even after I’ve taken a wife. That’s what a king does, son. You’re my people, but I’m still your king. I belong to all of you, not the other way around.” He beamed, then wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck.

“I hope she’s nice,” Artie said. “I didn’t like the other one.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.” Logan snorted under his breath.

“Me, either.”

It wasn’t entirely true. There had been a few that weren’t too bad, but all of them were transparent. I know I can change him once we’re married seemed to be written in their eyes once he’d spent more than five minutes in their presence, and Logan wouldn’t have it. He saw them mentally redressing him – not undressing him, which would have otherwise been acceptable – and cutting his hair, nagging him which fork to use first, or to ride in a carriage instead of on horseback.

“She has to know how to hunt,” Artie announced imperiously.

“Eh?”

“You can’t marry her if she doesn’t know how to hunt. And she has to have a little boy for us to play with.”

“Um…I think that kinda defeats the purpose of me givin’ her an heir, kiddo.”

“So? Then you two have to have a little boy after you get married.”

“That’s the plan, Art.”

“And she has to like whisky, like you do,” he continued. Logan snorted, glad he wasn’t drinking anything at the time, or he would have choked.

“What else do we hafta add ta the list?”

“Well, she has to have long brown hair. Or red,” he decided.

“Hm. Sounds good.”

“And nice teeth. She has to have teeth,” he said.

Inside, Logan was dying, craving the chance to laugh unhindered, but he didn’t want to hurt his little friend’s feelings. Still, the child had a point. Dentistry wasn’t a luxury everyone in the kingdom could afford.

“So I need a whisky-drinkin’ woman with nice long hair, nice teeth, who’ll give me a nice little son to play ball with and go huntin’ with me?”

“Right.”

“Right. I’ll get right on that.”

“I wish she’d get here already,” he grumbled, kicking the edge of the bed with his boot.

“Don’t do that. Be nice ta the furniture.”

“Okay. I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Then he walked over and wrapped his thin arms around Logan’s neck. “I hope she’s nice.”

“Me, too.” He gave him a brief pat. “Go have breakfast.” Almost as though she had been summoned, Artie’s mother appeared at the door.

“Your Highness, have you seen…oh, there you are!” Annalee came in and herded her son out, chiding him. “You haven’t even given him a chance to get decent, Arthur!”

“Pietro an’ Jean-Paul haven’t been able ta get me decent in the ten years that they’ve been here,” Logan reminded her. “Ain’t for lack of tryin’.”

“We’ll let you get ready. Come, Arthur.”

“Awwww!” Moments after they left, Pietro and Jean-Paul came bickering back into view, burdened with his breakfast tray and morning post.

Even eating was a chore. They flapped at him and scolded him about proper forks and spoons and knives and not to guzzle but to sip. He’d no sooner removed the napkin from his lap before they pounced, cleaning away dishes in a flurry of activity.

Then they got a hold of him again and the real torture began.

“Wear this green, sire. It brings out your eyes.”

“It’s warm out. He should wear the jerkin, or the vest.”

“Unacceptable. That will make him look like nothing more than a well-dressed peasant.”

“This belt’s nice,” Jean-Paul said, fingering the thick, hand-tooled leather.

“With the green tunic, then. Not the jerkin.”

“What’s wrong with the jerkin?”

“It’s tacky.”

“It most certainly is not. YOU’RE tacky.”

“Don’t make me slap you - !”

Logan watched their argument like it was a tennis match, sighing.

“Why don’t you get busy and black his boots?”

“Do I look like the boot black?”

“Honestly?”

“Don’t answer that. I will smack you, so help me.”

Various garments were held up for inspection and comparison. Logan stood patiently as they pressed each shirt against his body, ooh’ing, aah’ing and hmm’ing at the drape and color. They grew a bit too familiar with performing the same comparisons with the trousers. Logan longed to shed the rode and crawl back into bed.

Fifteen changes and one unsatisfied erection later, Logan stood detangled, creamed, combed, buffed, polished and primped before the full-length mirror.

“Do you like it, Highness?” Jean-Paul pleaded. “D’you think a different pair of boots would be more suitable, I could –“

“No!” Logan roared. “Like hell! Don’t…touch…anything.” Jean-Paul and Pietro looked slightly hurt. Logan sighed, then softened. “I’m sorry. What I meant was…ya did a nice job. More than satisfactory.”

“Your Highness? If I may be so bold, you look stunning.” Pietro ran his hand over the sleeve of the richly embroidered tunic, sighing admiringly and straightening the cuff.

“A work of art, Highness,” Jean-Paul chimed in. He took Logan’s hand and knelt, kissing Logan’s signet. His lips lingered over his flesh for just a moment too long. Pietro copied the gesture before they left. Logan was grateful for the solitude.

Tension worked its way around his eyes and mouth in fine lines. Logan sat on the window seat, staring out at the preparations.

The one thing Logan would never admit out loud was that he was lonely. It pained Logan to remember, not only the disappointment he’d felt over each failed attempt at a betrothal, but to experience again and again, the death of hope.

He spent much of his night awake, staring into the dark as he worried about the day’s outcome. His father wanted an heir, but Logan wanted a partner. While he knew his own strengths and worth, he wanted to see those things reflected in the eyes of someone special, someone who would complete him.

He opened the window to let in the fresh morning air and herald the new day. He picked the wrong moment, however…

“HIGHNESS! Close that up, I beg of you! Don’t muss your hair with that strong breeze!”

“Let me come up and use this fine pomade, Highness, it will fix it in place and last all day!”

At that point, Logan chose to flee.

He detoured through the rear corridor and found the door that led out to the battlements and bell tower of the castle.

“Where’s he off to?” Jubilee whispered to her friend, Paige as they scrubbed the floor.

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “But he looks awful nice, doesn’t he?” They sighed over his fine raiment and how well it fit his physique.

Logan needed to ride. He saddled his roan, Maverick, without rousing the footman at the stables.

Before anyone knew he was gone, Logan was off, haring through the woods. The enormous redwood trees that gave his kingdom its name swayed slightly in the wind. The air felt decadent blowing through his hair and against his cheeks. Jean-Paul and Pietro would surely kill him…

He had no plans to hunt. He simply craved his favorite spot and familiar company.

Roughly a mile to the north, Logan found the tiny, warm water spring that he’d discovered as a boy, waiting for him. He tethered Maverick to a sapling that stood only a foot or two taller than Logan was.

He sat on the fallen log and removed his boots, carefully setting them aside in a pile of dead leaves. He untied the lacing at the tunic’s neck, opening it up and fanning some cool air against his throat. Much better.

Logan watched the sunlight filter through the branches and listened to birds chattering and taking wing, wondering why the rest of his day couldn’t be so uncomplicated.

He caught a familiar scent and the sounds of footpads crunching through the brush behind him. Logan didn’t turn toward the noise; he sat and stripped the bark from a long, jagged twig and waited patiently.

A cool, damp nose nudged his arm, then worked its way under it, pushing Logan to lift it and embrace the shaggy gray head.

“Careful, now. One stain on this shirt and Jean-Paul will come back her and make me a winter cloak out of yer hide,” Logan promised, giving the old wolf a scratch behind his ears. The animal whined and licked his hand. “Beggar,” Logan chuckled, reaching into his belt pouch. He fished out a small lump of leftover fried egg that he smuggled from the breakfast table and fed it to him.

Slowly, Logan’s other forest friends joined them at the spring, each approaching him for their morning exchange of pleasantries.

They were kin of a different sort, and the denizens of the woods respected and followed Logan as readily as his men. Even different fauna who were normally at odds and natural enemies laid aside territorial issues in Logan’s presence. A row of sparrows sat neatly along Logan’s arm as he traded bird song with them with a purse of his lips. He flung them up into the air and laughed at their flight and wild shrieks. A small red fox lay curled and dozing around his neck like a stole.

The serenity of the spring was disturbed by the racket of large carriage wheels.

“Shit,” Logan muttered. “It was nice while it lasted.

He stood and brushed himself off, gently disengaging the fox and letting her scurry into a nearby hollow tree. On his way toward Maverick, Logan gave a large, juvenile grizzly a brisk pat.

“Fishing tomorrow?” he inquired. The bear rumbled at him with a mighty yawn and nose his hand. “Tomorrow, then.”

Logan was astride Maverick and back on the winding trail before the occupants of the carriage caught sight of him. Briefly, the coachman noticed the swish of a chestnut brown tail but dismissed it.

“Wonder who’s up and about at this hour?”

“Probably beggars,” a strident baritone called out. “Miserable wretches. Even thievery is better to make a living. Even thieves have pride.”

“As you like, Highness,” the coachmen agreed cheerfully. The ride was uneventful but dreadfully dull.

The kingdom of Shade and Sweet Water was just past a deep canyon, then over the snow-capped mountains whose peaks looked like cotton candy at sundown. Prince Remy didn’t have high hopes for their smaller, more rugged neighbor to the south.

Nor for the prince that his parents had in mind, well-meaning or not.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered as he stared out at the redwoods. They rode past an enormous black bear that stood on its hind feet as though in greeting. Remy threw a crust of bread at it in scorn.

*

“Logan, they’re here!” Artie cried, pointing wildly to the ornate black carriage with bronze fittings as it roared into the courtyard. A second carriage followed, bearing the royal crest. Horsemen rode ahead of them, flying bright pennants behind them in Shade and Sweet Water’s colors.

“What a racket,” Logan agreed as he lifted the boy up onto his shoulders for a better look. The crowd was cheering and throwing rose petals over the path, crying out blessings for the bride to be and the future union they all anticipated.

“James? Make us proud,” his mother beckoned over his shoulder. She gently took his hand and kissed his cheek. Queen Eliza was small and plump, and her black hair was shot through with gray, but she was still a lovely woman with large, expressive blue eyes. “Your father and I have tried to avoid past mistakes with this choice. Sometimes, you’ll find once you’ve succeeded us that it’s smart to think outside the box…”

“Outside the box? Mother, what-“

His question was cut off by fanfare of trumpets and drums as the horsemen presented and executed a sharp formation. Stewards hurried out from the castle to assist the princess as she disembarked. A rich red velvet carpet was unrolled neatly, leading to the front gate.

“Come,” Eliza said, tugging Logan along by the sleeve. Artie’s mother made him get down, much to his disappointment.

“Aw! I wanna meet Logan’s lady!”

“That’s Prince James to you,” Annalee reminded him pleasantly before she shushed him.

The crowd continued to cheer as Logan approached his father’s side. Pietro and Jean-Paul were very thorough, ensuring that Jonathan’s clothing matched his son’s for the occasion, but his tunic was much more elaborate, embroidered in gold threads.

“Son?”

“Father?”

“Don’t mess this up.”

The crowd waited with bated breath.

Logan watched as the first carriage’s doors opened to allow a slender, slightly stooped gentlemen wearing a red tunic and black trousers to come down the steps. A coronet of silver sat upon his head, which was slightly balding. His expression was saturnine and sharp.

“His Majesty King Jean-Luc the Quick,” bellowed his footman, “and Her Majesty Queen Candra.” His wife was remarkably tall and dark-skinned, surprising Logan. He bargained the king acquired his bride from foreign lands, likely across the sea. She, too, looked to be in her middle years but she was very striking.

“What must their children look like?” Eliza wondered aloud, echoing Logan’s thoughts.

“Are there any more children in that family?”

“No. They have only the one.”

King Jonathan and Queen Eliza made their introductions with polite handshakes and perfunctory kisses.

Jean-Luc looked Logan up and down, bold in his scrutiny. “Not very old for a prince only on his first marriage,” he remarked.

“Don’t know if this is going to even be my first marriage,” Logan said bluntly. Jean-Luc sniffed.

“Your Majesties King Jonathan and Queen Eliza, we are honored and proud to present to thee …PRINCE REMY!”

The drum roll came to an abrupt stop.

The entire courtyard was shocked into silence.

A tall, broad-shouldered young man arose from the carriage, staring out at his audience with a hint of amusement.

He proceeded up the red carpet silently, elegantly.

Eyes that glowed red and hot as a firebrand stared at the two royal couples on the dais, nearly missing the additional figure standing slightly behind them. He made out an expensive pair of shining black, calf-length boots. What should have been the whites of those same eyes were endlessly black, gleaming like obsidian.

His skin was flawless, golden and smooth as silk. Long, chestnut brown hair flowed down his back, bound in a thick braid tied off with gold cord. He wore his kingdom’s colors, a deep cranberry red with the family crest embroidered on his tunic. His smile was bold and confident, and his teeth were straight, white as ivory.

Logan was dumbfounded, yet satisfied on some small level; he already had two of the qualities on Artie’s list.

He reached the dais and bowed low to his future in-laws, but to their surprise, there was a hint of scorn in his eyes when he straightened.

“My son? Meet your groom,” Queen Candra told him in a rich, deep alto.

She stood aside and gestured for Logan to come forward.

Logan’s pulse hadn’t returned to normal quite yet. He was still reeling from the announcement that his bride was actually a groom, and that he was Remy’s groom. Blood seemed to pound in his temples and he felt a hectic flush creep into his cheeks.

Was this what his mother meant by “thinking out of the box?”

More to the point, why was his body reacting so violently to his presence?

His scent was rugged, holding a hint of some herbal cologne mingling with his own natural aroma. Logan knew without laying a finger on him that his skin was likely hot to the touch. He had high cheekbones and a long, narrow face.

His sensuous mouth with its deeply notched upper lip smirked.

“Wanna tell me sometin’, chere?” he drawled. It took Logan a moment to realize he wasn’t going to make a proper introduction.

“What would you like to know?”

“How is it a kingdom called Towering Trees can produce a squat, scruffy runt for its crown prince? Dis de best dat y’can do?”

Behind him, Logan’s mother swooned.