Diamond in the Rough

Summary: A spurned groom comes to Remy’s rescue. Things get interesting.

Author’s Note: Thanks for the first review, Lex!

“Highness, you’re soaked clean through! What on earth happened to you?”

“Let me have your cloak, Highness, you’ll catch a chill, I’ll start a fire,” Pietro babbled, adding his voice to Jean-Paul’s as they fussed over him. Their hands pulled at him, attempting to push him into a chair, but Logan shook them off impatiently.

“No! Don’t!” Logan flung the offending wet, muddied cloak across the room and headed toward the hallway. “PHYSICIAN!” he bellowed. Pietro and Jean-Paul flinched. Their lord was in a fit of pique, face twisted in a black scowl, and they sensed a fearsome energy within him, as though nothing would stop him from accomplishing a task they couldn’t grasp.

“What’s happening?” Jubilee asked Paige as they hurried toward the prince’s chamber with the hot water and towels he ordered.

“I haven’t the faintest,” she whispered back. “But his Highness is in a dither.”

“Be prepared to run for it, Paige.”

“Highness, forgive me, but who is this?”

“Someone yer gonna see a lot of over the next few days. I’m gonna tell ya right now,” Logan informed them harshly, “the two of ya are gonna be custodians of his safety and well-being. Treat him the way you would treat me if I came home to you in his condition.” Pietro approached the bed where a lean, wan figure was sprawled out, bundled in a damp blanket. His intake of breath was sharp as he drew the coverlet back from his face. “Don’t disturb him!”

“Sire…I’m sorry. This is such a shock. He’s wearing royal colors.”

“I know that,” Logan snapped.

“Sire…is he…?” Jean-Paul inquired, hoping Logan would fill in the blank.

“Address him as Prince Remy when he awakes,” Logan said as he moved about the room. He jerked open the armoire and rummaged through his things, finding a clean white shirt, loose enough to be comfortable. Jean-Paul jumped back into action, helping him into fresh clothes and setting aside his mud-caked boots for the page to collect.

Paige and Jubilee brought in the water and rags. “Wait. Don’t go. Whisky. Bring some, quickly. Tell Clementine I told you to if she gives you trouble.” His cook ran a tight ship. Logan prepared himself for the inevitable blistering she’d likely give him. It didn’t matter that he was a prince. Clementine was a force to be reckoned with.

The young man writhed on the bed. Low moans of pain escaped him, not shaping words from their substance yet.

“He’s in horrible shape,” Jean-Paul murmured. His gut clenched at the sight of the wounds, raw and slick with thickening blood. His clothing was hopelessly torn, as though someone or something tried to tear it from him. He went to remove Remy’s blanket, but Logan stopped his hands.

“No. Stoke up the fire first. Keep him warm. I won’t have him catching more of a chill.”

“A fever’s likely to set in from the infection, sire, if not from his time in the rain.” The rain washed the dirt and grit from the ground into his wounds, despite Logan’s efforts to cover him on his ride home.

Before Remy blacked out, he felt himself being carefully lifted and hauled up high. He smelled horseflesh and rain, as well as the tang of whisky. He was in too much pain to guess the source.

“We’ll come back for your servants,” the voice above him rumbled.

“Nate…” he rasped. “Sam…”

“Don’t worry about them right now,” Logan soothed. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that his footman and coachman were lying crushed and lifeless in the brush, staring sightlessly at the sky. “Rest.”

“Teeth. Eyes. Came for me,” his charge moaned. “They came for me! Out of the dark!”

The clouds briefly rolled and shifted, revealing the moon long enough to illuminate the surrounding woods. Logan brushed aside the young man’s hair that was torn loose from his long braid, so that it no longer obscured his eyes.

Eyes.

Red on black. Rubies against velvet. Logan swallowed around a bitter lump.

Logan felt his pity slowly replaced by shock, then a slow-simmering frustration.

His shame was easier to bear when he was content in the knowledge that he and Remy would never lay eyes on each other again. The bad memory could remain a memory.

Logan’s face was still obscured by his cloak.

“Cold,” he insisted.

“I know. It’s all right.” Remy felt himself propped and settled against the man’s solid bulk, gathered close against the hard planes of his chest. His breath was warm, steaming his temple and bringing the sting of whisky with it. Remy huddled more deeply into that warmth, desperate for a balm to his pain. His hands exhausted what strength they had left, fisting themselves in the rough homespun shirt.

“Something got him good,” Victor murmured. “Bear, I’m thinking.” He sniffed the air and peered at the animal tracks. “And wolf. More than one. Must’ve really stirred ‘em up for ‘em to attack like that.”

“But why?” Logan wondered. The woods were quiet; Logan felt the same sense of security out in the open, that nature was watching over him, blessing him. He wondered what, if anything, Remy had done to offend the creatures Logan shared an unbreakable kinship with.

The carriage was a wreck, totaled. The slain horse wasn’t mauled or scavenged, so the wolves’ motive hadn’t been food.

The horse beneath him began its journey, rolling beneath Remy and lulling him into a troubled sleep.

*

Logan kept vigil throughout the night, propped up in his vanity chair. When Remy woke briefly, Logan dosed him with whisky to numb some of his pain and to soothe him. He babbled in his sleep periodically and was succumbing to delirium. His skin was pale except for the flush of fever in his cheeks.

Logan mopped his brow and chest with cool, wet cloths around the clock, sending the soiled ones out with Jubilee. Pietro and Jean-Paul tsked over the loss of his beautiful clothing and gingerly changed him into a fresh pair of white linen drawers.

His form was breathtaking, making it so tempting to take liberties, to let hands linger on his smooth skin, but they shook off the urge. Their lord’s expression brooked no nonsense and even less patience.

But he was beautiful.

Remy’s body was lithe and sculpted. His chest and abdomen were taut as a drum, supple skin stretched over hills of muscle. His limbs were long and held wiry strength, and his legs were perfectly formed, long and graceful. They were sparsely covered with dark brown hair, showing the contours of muscle to splendid effect. He had long, narrow feet with long toes.

“Clean as a whistle,” Pietro murmured with a chuckle. “You could learn something from this one.” He tweaked Remy’s big toe, admiring his immaculate toenails.

“Please,” Logan muttered in disgust. Jean-Paul gently rolled and turned Remy in bed to change the damp, bloodied sheets. They assisted the castle’s physician, Leonard, as he dressed the prince’s wounds.

They left Logan alone shortly before dawn. Exhaustion pricked him, but Logan remained awake, staring at his guest.

His would-be groom.

Bitterness wrapped itself around him. Logan swirled his brandy in its goblet absently and watched the flames dance in the grate.

Remy moaned, tossing aside his blankets.

“Don’t,” Logan admonished. “Don’t catch a chill.”

“Please,” he cried raggedly. “Help me. Please.”

“You’re safe now. Rest. Don’t make such a fuss.”

“Etienne,” he told him. Logan dampened another cloth and stroked his throat with it, wiping remaining smudges of blood away. He had a long cut over his brow that would possibly leave a scar. Logan huffed, wondering if Remy would despair of that more than his totaled carriage and dead servants.

“Who is he? Do ya want us to send a message to him?”

“Told him…take care of papa’s sword,” he whispered. His eyes snapped open, pinning Logan, yet they seemed to look through him. His hand flew up, snatching Logan’s hand. His fingers dug into his wrist with surprising strength. “Told him to take care of my sword.”

The meaning of his words sunk in.

“Ya have a son.”

“Bella…tol’ me ta love him…love…him…” His face twisted in pain. Logan offered him more whisky. Remy gulped it down, nearly choking on it, while Logan propped him up by the shoulders. The natural scent of his hair was marred by the coppery stench of curdled blood.

Logan laid him back down and tucked him back in, smoothing his covers.

“We’ll get you back to your son. Soon,” Logan promised.

He reached down to smooth back a lock of Remy’s hair from his face. Remy sighed and leaned into his gentle touch. The tension drained from his face as he finally began to feel safe. Remy’s features relaxed.

“Merci,” he slurred.

Logan snatched his hand away.

He’d nearly fallen under his spell, drawn by that voice, those compelling eyes.