Diamond in the Rough

Summary: The chapter title says it all. Logan cares for the peevish prince, even though it takes all he has not to kill him.

Author's Note: There is a hint of citrus in this chapter. Just a hint. *chuckle*

A rough poke jerked Logan from an uncomfortable, too short sleep. His snore was interrupted, choking him awake. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, knocking loose bits of grit. He had the worst kink in his neck and felt disjointed, disoriented.

“You.” The voice held an accusing note, even though Remy sounded weak and strained.

Logan steeled himself. “Good mornin’.”

“Is it?”

“Hold on,” Logan said as he rose. His joints popped as he stretched, relieved to be out of his cramped sleeping position. He crossed the large chamber and drew the curtains back, flooding the room with sunlight. Remy groaned. His unique eyes squinted into slits, then adjusted to the change.

But his eyes raked over Logan, taking in his tousled, scruffy appearance.

“Dis is how Remy expected ya t’look, homme,” he rasped.

“I ain’t sure whatcha mean by that, but I’ll make a note of it.”

“Wild,” Remy murmured. “Not wrapped up in fancy trappin’s.” Logan grunted.

It was true. Logan hated the uncomfortable, rich clothing himself, feeling out of place and unlike himself. He needed clothes he could live, move and work in without worrying about them getting soiled.

He stood a few feet from the bed, erect and proud, daring Remy to judge him. His hair was a lost cause, shaggy from the rain and slightly mashed on one side from leaning against the back of the chair while he slept. His fine cotton shirt was hopelessly wrinkled but fell in loose, graceful folds around his sturdy body. He only wore white drawers to cover his vitals, identical to the pair Remy slept in.

Those unnervingly sharp hazel eyes were puffy and squinting in annoyance. He almost resembled a wet cat. The comparison made Remy smirk.

“What?”

“Not’in.’”

“Ya might have an easier time lecturin’ me on sartorial elegance and fashion when yer able ta get outta bed and dress yerself,” Logan mentioned casually. “Can ya move yer arm?” That was the first time Remy noticed the splint and bandages.

That brought the night before into sharp focus. As if on cue, Remy’s arm began to throb.

Logan noticed his grimace. “Yer in pain.”

“Damn it, of course I’m in pain!”

“Wait.” Logan was frustrated with the indignity of trying to be pleasant to someone he could rightfully throw out of his castle. Or at any rate, toss out of his room on his ass. Logan went to the fainting couch by the window and removed two of the cushions. As carefully as possible, he used one to prop Remy up.

“I’m gonna try not ta hurt ya –“

“Non. Ya ain’t gonna hurt me, period.” Remy’s mouth thinned and his eyes promised punishment.

“I’m just gonna try ta adjust yer arm. Elevate it.”

“Get one of de servants, den.”

“Right now, I’m it.”

“Summon one,” Remy demanded.

“No,” Logan said simply. “I’m gonna help ya. And yer gonna let me help ya.”

“Why?” Remy croaked.

Logan didn’t have an answer. He slid his hand beneath Remy’s upper arm carefully, invading his personal space.

“Damn it!” Remy hissed.

“I’m bein’ as careful as I can.” Remy cried out in pain as his arm was shifted, then lifted, transferred to the thick cushion and carefully propped.

“Ya don’ know what de hell yer doin’!” Remy blasted him, fully awake now and feeling the full effects of his helplessness.

“Ya want me ta call my servants,” Logan murmured dangerously, “but let me ask ya somethin’. Do ya treat yer own staff like this when they see ta yer care?”

“It’s no business of yours, homme, how I act in my own palace.”

“It is my business how ya act in mine. Yer gonna treat my staff with respect.” Remy noticed he didn’t include himself in those expectations. He huffed, irritated.

“Where’re my clothes?”

“Ruined. They can be replaced. My valets, Jean-Paul and Pietro, will see to that once you’ve bathed and eaten.”

“Tell me,” Remy said, glaring up at him, “what happened to my men? My coachman, Nathaniel? And Samuel?”

“We found them when we found you.” Logan exhaled a breath. “They’re to be buried tonight.”

The words hit Remy like a blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, overcome. Pity gripped Logan when he heard his low groan of regret.

“No, God, please…” Logan quietly sat down in the chair beside him and hung back, letting him have his moment.

A low sob wracked Remy’s chest. His good hand crept up to grind the heel of his fist into his eyes, then pound his forehead in defiance.

“No,” he wept. “Not Sam. He was too damned young. Promised his maman he’d have a place in my palace, and dat he’d be well cared for. Promised her…”

Logan silently rose from his chair and left him.

It surprised him how much it gnawed at him to see the younger prince in pain. Logan could cleanse his physical wounds, but witnessing such anguish moved him, and in a sense, made him feel helpless to do anything about it.

Logan made his way to the north wing of the castle, letting himself into the servants’ quarters.

He roused Jean-Paul, shaking him.

“Up. I need yer help.”

“Sire…?” He was groggy and confused, already rolling up to a sitting position in his narrow bed.

“Begin preparing Prince Remy for his day here. Breakfast and clothing. Then summon Leonard to see about his arm and other injuries.”

“Anything else, sire?” That was from Pietro. He watched his lord with concern. “Is he all right?”

“No. He weathered the night, but last night’s events have finally, fully hit him, and he’s the worst for it.”

“At once, Highness.” Jean-Paul beat Pietro out of bed, and they hurried to do Logan’s bidding.

Logan’s visit to their chamber had a ripple effect. One by one, every servant in his home scrambled awake and began the day’s preparations. Word traveled quickly about the prince’s guest and his arrival the night before.

Gossip flooded the kitchen once the scullery girls assembled and reported to Clementine.

“I heard the carriage is a shambles.”

“Right ripped him apart. A bear, probably.”

“Heard that prince from over the mountains has demon’s eyes.”

“Don’t be silly, he has the face of an angel! And you should see that hair!”

“Silly bints,” Clementine scolded. Her breasts bounced with the force of pounding her fists into a thick mound of dough. She was massive and formidable. Sweat beaded on her brow and she paused to scratch the flabby folds of her double chin. “It’s none of our affair how he ended up here! You, fetch me that pot for the cider!”

Clementine wouldn’t tolerate anyone speaking ill of the king and queen, nor of Prince James. Over the years she came to care for him as much as if he were her own son. She’d hoped just as strongly that he would make a successful betrothal and was crushed that he once again ended up alone. He was such a good man.

“Don’t just stand there, or I’ll find you something to do!” Clementine bellowed. The scullery maids took flight, washing, mixing and measuring. Clementine shook her head. “Honestly…”

A few minutes later, Jean-Paul arrived upstairs with a broad platter covered with a towel. He was surprised to find Logan standing by the window, his back to Remy as he stared outside. Remy no longer wept, but he stared with animosity at the doorway as Jean-Paul entered.

“May I leave it here, Highness?”

“Yes,” Logan told him.

“Non,” Remy argued. “Stay. I need help.”

“I will help you,” Logan reminded him.

“Oh, sire, I’d be glad to help him, really…”

“Ya have other duties.” Jean-Paul frowned, but did as he was told and left. In truth, he was slightly disappointed. Seeing the young prince in repose and in dishabille like that was very appealing.

“What other duties does he have, if he’s your valet?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Den why send him away?”

“I’d like to speak with you.” Logan brought the tray to the bedside. He uncovered it, setting the towel aside. Appetizing smells tickled Remy’s nose. There were scrambled eggs, bread and jam, cider and a warm, easy to digest broth.

“I’ll feed myself,” Remy insisted, grunting with the discomfort trying to prop himself further caused. Logan sighed, but he moved out of the way to watch his efforts.

Remy could still wiggle his fingers of his right hand, but it was nearly impossible to move it usefully with the splint. He reached for the spoon with his left hand and fumbled, spilling broth across the coverlet, then again down his chin when his grip faltered.

He flung it back into the bowl, exasperated.

“Damn it!” he burst out. He glared at Logan. “Happy?”

“Why?”

“Like seein’ me make a mess of dis?”

“No.” Logan picked up the bowl of broth carefully and held it up to Remy’s lips. “That’s my bed yer messin’ up.”

Remy flushed scarlet.

“Hungry? Here.” He leaned forward and helped Remy, again propping him and bringing the bowl at the right angle so all he had to do was dip his mouth and drink. “Think ya can handle the fork?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Soon, ya will. Right now, though, yer hurt. My physician says ya have a fractured arm, deep bruises on yer legs, and a few lacerations that weren’t deep enough ta have ta stitch ya back together. Ya got a concussion, no doubt when yer carriage rolled. Yer lucky ya didn’t break yer neck.”

“Because I jus’ feel so damned lucky right now,” Remy snarled. Logan almost sympathized with him.

“Try the eggs.” Logan took the liberty of spooning some jam onto Remy’s thick slice of bread and spreading it for him. Remy made a successful attempt with the fork and ate a couple of bites of egg. But one bite of the bread was all he could manage.

“M’not dat hungry.”

“Fever,” Logan explained.

“My head hurts.”

“Part of the fever, and the concussion. Ya’ll mend soon enough. In the meantime, we’ve sent out a courier. Your mother and father have left us. When they return to find you haven’t made it back, they’ll be worried.” Remy paled.

“He’s not de only one who needs t’be told-“

“I know. There was a separate message written for yer son. By my own hand.” Remy’s brows beetled together.

“How d’ya know ‘bout my son?”

“Ya told me. Ya woke up several times last night. You mentioned Etienne. Am I sayin’ it right?”

“Close enough. But don’ trouble yerself, homme. It’s painful listenin’ t’people murderin’ French when it’s such a beautiful language.”

“My parents never said ya had a son.”

“Don’ know why dey left out dat particular detail.”

“It would’ve been helpful. Ya already have an heir. So with that in mind, ya don’t necessarily need a bride. Me, on the other hand, I don’t have either.”

“Dat’s what’s beginnin’ t’occur t’Remy. By right of marriage…if ya could even call it dat, my son would also become your heir. And heir ta Towering Trees.”

“That might have been what my mother meant by ‘thinking out of the box.’” Remy gave him an odd look but said nothing.

Logan had Remy’s tray cleared away and left him to Jean-Paul and Pietro’s mercies. They brought hot water for him to be bathed in bed and changed the sheets once more. Logan took them aside and warned them that more exhaustive details of his grooming could wait until the next day, since he still wasn’t well. Remy was cranky for most of the morning and lapsed back into an uneasy sleep.

“It’s a shame,” Pietro murmured once they were out of earshot. “I’d give anything to brush that hair.”

“It’s luscious,” Jean-Paul agreed as they peered back in through the crack in the doorway at Remy as he slumbered.

Logan finally saw to his own needs, retiring to his parents’ chamber to finish his ablutions in relative privacy. His father’s booming tones interrupted him.

“Why did I have the distinct displeasure of hearing Victor tell me that the two of you were caught in a storm last night?”

“We can’t control the weather, Father.”

“No! But you didn’t have to stay out so late, with only your groom to accompany you.”

“It’s just as well that we left when we did. We found him on time,” Logan pointed out.

“Perhaps you would have found him even sooner had you returned earlier.” Logan didn’t mention how seeing the flock of birds take flight in a panic from the woods was what led him to Remy’s rescue.

“Ya don’t know that, Father. But yer right, I do wish I had discovered him sooner.”

“How is he?” His father’s voice lowered and some of the anger left his face.

“He still needs considerable care. I mean ta see that he gets it.”

“Jean-Paul can take care of him.”

“I wanna give him closer supervision than that.”

“Supervision?” Jonathan asked, cocking a brow. Logan shrugged, then turned away, lacing up his boots.

He watched his son during the conversation and noticed the changes in his tone and eyes when he spoke of the prince. An inkling came to him that all wasn’t what it seemed.

He took a different tack.

“James,” he began, “I would like to speak with you about Remy.”

“What is there ta say?”

“Your mother and I had your best interests at heart. Believe me when I say that.”

“So you tried to arrange a marriage with a groom instead of a bride.”

“With a consort,” his father corrected him. “We’ve watched you change over the years, James. Each time a match didn’t suit, you grew a little more disappointed. A bit more jaded. Harder. You’re a strong man, and I admire you for it.” Logan looked up from his second boot and sat up. Jonathan saw sadness in his son’s eyes, so much like his own.

“Are ya ashamed of me, Father?”

“NO!” he boomed. He sat beside his son on the bed and covered Logan’s hand with his. Logan felt a pang of guilt as he studied it, knuckles slightly knotted with arthritis and skin drawn against large veins. Jonathan squeezed his and sighed. “I’m frustrated, watching this continue, but I could never be ashamed of my son.”

“No one wants me,” he said simply.

“You haven’t found the right person yet who does. Your mother and I haven’t, yet. We mean to rectify that.”

“A groom might not have been the ideal solution.”

“James? Before he denied you, what did you think of him?”

Logan was speechless. He stared down into his lap, at their joined hands.

“Father…it doesn’t matter.”

Logan couldn’t believe his own ears.

Had he just said that?

A flare of hope raised Jonathan’s brows. “It does. It would be for the best to learn from this.”

“He said all I needed ta hear.”

“I have a hard time believing he’s that vain.”

“Maybe his bride was a beauty before.”

“He told you about her?”

“Only that she gave him a son.”

“Aaahhhh…” Jonathan scratched his chin thoughtfully.

He rose from the bed.

“Don’t leave him waiting. You should be there when he wakes.” He clapped Logan on the back fondly. “Take good care of him.”

“Maybe if I don’t kill him first.”

*

Logan needn’t have worried. Remy plunged back into delirium as the fever gripped him again. Leonard peered into Remy’s eye, prying open his upper lid as he slept.

“We overestimated how well he’s recuperating. He has an infection.” Remy’s skin was hot to the touch and he occasionally jerked beneath the covers. \

Panic seized Logan. “Don’t talk in circles, tell me what needs ta be done!”

“Liquids. Plenty of water and clear cider. Soup, if he feels like eating. But this wound needs to be drained.” He peeled back the covers and revealed Remy’s calf. The flesh around the deep cut was swollen and showing angry red streaks and the beginnings of shining pus. Logan felt sick, hating that they hadn’t given him adequate care. “It will be painful.”

“I won’t leave him.”

“I’d never ask you to. You can assist me.” Leonard left the chamber to assemble his tools and bandages. Logan watched Remy sleep more fitfully, brow wrinkling in concern.

“Yer gonna be all right,” he whispered. “I promise.” He smoothed Remy’s hair back from his face and simply stroked it, in some way hoping to soothe him. “We’ll get ya back ta yer son. Maybe ya don’t need me,” Logan admitted, “but he needs you.”

*

Remy woke to searing pain.

He struggled awake, eyes snapping open wide as the blazing hot, piercing sharpness punctured his flesh.

“AAAGHHHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOO! DAMN YOU!” His screams were ragged and guttural. Sweat broke out over his face and chest as the pain grew. Strong, merciless hands squeezed his calf, mitigating the pain. His skin was pierced again, opening another shallow wound near the first. Remy felt nauseous and dizzy.

“Stay with me,” a voice by his ear urged. “I’m here! Hold onto me!” He was being held down while the torture was inflicted upon him, and Remy wasn’t having it. He thrashed and cried out, the fist of his good arm flying up to strike wherever it landed. His effort was rewarded by a grunt of pain and low curses.

“Leave me…be…!” Remy shook and his teeth chattered from the shock of the pain and the cool air bathing his heated skin, now that the blankets were drawn back.

Outside the chamber, Pietro and Jean-Paul paced and fretted, waiting to be told what to do. The young prince’s moans and whimpers of pain tore at him, making him feel helpless and useless.

“I can’t stand it,” Pietro cried. “I hate seeing anyone suffer like that.” He turned to Jean-Paul. “Are you…crying?”

“No. M’fine,” Jean-Paul mumbled, but he dashed a tear from his eye before it could fall.

“You were crying,” Pietro accused.

“I merely had something in my eye.” He turned away and folded his arms across his chest, doing his best to ignore the other valet. Pietro sighed and reached for him, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“I didn’t say I blamed you,” he murmured softly. Jean-Paul nodded and cleared his throat, satisfied.

Leonard made another small cut, mindful not to probe too deep and to make him lose too much blood. Pale, yellowish pus oozed steadily from the wound as they massaged the muscle and firmly exerted pressure away from Remy’s heart. Remy flailed and thrashed back against the pillow until Logan held him down, covering his chest with his weight.

“Let…me be,” Remy gasped. “Please.”

“Soon,” Logan promised, his deep voice almost a croon. His forearm held him pinned to the mattress, but Logan’s free hand stroked Remy’s jaw. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner ya’ll get well. But ya can’t keep fightin’. That’s a sharp knife my doctor’s usin’ t’open yer wound. Ya don’t wanna make him miss.” Remy paled and ceased his struggles, but then he shivered, teeth chattering. “Hush,” he whispered, and he went back to stroking his hair.

Bit by bit Remy’s tremors slowed to occasional jerks. The bed dipped beneath Remy as Logan sat on the edge.

He held his good hand and stroked his hair. Remy’s eyes were glazed and watery, beseeching Logan. It was painful to witness.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

“Don’ leave me,” Remy croaked.

And Logan didn’t.

*

Over the next twelve hours, Remy winked in and out of consciousness. He moaned and struggled as hands periodically shifted and prodded him. Comfort occasionally came in the form of cool damp cloths swabbing his chest and neck. Some of them had an acidic, tangy odor and their moisture evaporated more quickly. Logan made good use of the witch hazel solution the doctor prescribed.

He drank liquids. After a while, he couldn’t tell one kind from another. Each time he was gently propped, even cradled by someone very strong as cups or bowls were lifted to his lips. He spat out the more bitter concoctions until a gruff voice told him it was medicine to help purge his infection.

He woke again to the agony of the knife, sterilized by flame as his wound was opened and drained once more. This time he bore it, but the strain weakened him, leaving him limp as a rag.

Those large, comforting hands returned, stroking his scalp and damp cheek, wiping away unintentional tears. During moments of clarity, deep hazel eyes creased with lines of worry watched him, roving over him with concern.

*

Daylight.

A spear of sunlight crept inside through the gap in the curtains. It illuminated his unfamiliar surroundings. Dimly he wondered why he wasn’t in his own bed, and why the familiar effects of his chamber were missing.

The chamber was quiet except for low breathing coming from beside him. Remy’s eyes jerked to the left. It was still painful to move, but he gingerly turned himself to face the interloper.

It was Prince James. And he was curled up uncomfortably, snoring like a drunken sailor.

Remy would have laughed if he wasn’t so shocked.

Or in so much pain…his muscles ached, as though they had been tensed and strained all night. His arm and leg both throbbed, but his leg no longer felt swollen and heavy. Remy experimentally flexed the fingers of his broken arm. They wiggled. He was relieved.

In the meantime, he watched his host, taking in details of his face while he slept.

No. Logan was no great beauty. His opinion hadn’t changed in that regard. But when his features were relaxed in sleep, his face was less imposing, more human.

His lips were well-formed, and his jaw was covered in a coat of dark stubble. Remy was tempted to caress it, to see if it felt like sandpaper.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d woke up beside another man. He’d long been deprived of a man’s rougher touch and throaty groans, almost forgetting how it felt to be taken completely, to experience the different texture of male skin covered with wiry hair.

He smelled very, very male. There was also a hint of whisky on his breath.

He hadn’t grown any taller overnight, Remy thought derisively. But stretched out, wearing the simple shirt and drawers, Remy had a better look at his physique. With his head thrown back slightly he could see the cords of muscle in his neck and the massive shoulders more clearly; his shirt was bunched up and made the thin fabric stretch more snugly over his contours.

Logan grunted in his sleep and turned halfway, as though he was trying to economize space in the bed around his guest. When he flipped over onto his back, Remy was treated to a better view of his…assets.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes hungrily devouring the sight of his pebbled nipple peaking through the open flap of the shirt, as well as the generous mound of his sex in the modest britches.

Had it been any other man, prince or not, Remy would have taken full advantage of Logan’s “morning predicament” and prolonged getting out of bed for as long as possible. Remy felt Logan’s body heat radiating from him without even touching him.

It appalled him how much he wanted to touch him…

He must have stared too long. Logan’s eyes suddenly snapped open, then jerked toward Remy.

“Bon jour,” Remy murmured smugly. “Got ‘nuff beauty rest, homme?”

“So this ain’t just a nightmare,” Logan retorted. His voice was raspy and hoarse first thing in the morning and unbelievably sexy, but Remy didn’t give any sign that it affected him. “I get ta start my day takin’ care of a pain in the ass.”

“Didn’t pay much attention in etiquette class, non?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon. ‘Might I inquire how you slept, Sire?’” Logan deadpanned as he rose and heartily scratched himself.

“Dat was elegant,” Remy said under his breath. He rolled his eyes while Logan’s back was turned to him.

Logan surprised him by automatically pouring him a cup of water from a nearby pitcher and handing it to him.

“Can ya manage it yerself?”

“Oui. Merci.”

“Sure.” Their fingertips barely grazed each other as he handed him the glass. Remy felt a strange, lingering flush steal up his neck as Logan watched him drink.

“How long’ve I been here?”

“Almost three days now. Ya’ve been unconscious fer most of it.” Remy paled.

“Need t’get back. Can’t stay away dis long. Etienne’s missing me.”

“I know,” Logan reminded him. “We already sent word that you’re being taken care of. Ain’t like I have any plans ta kidnap ya and hold ya fer ransom, Highness.”

“Remy. Enough wit’ dat ‘Highness’ nonsense. Make me sound like a snob, when you’re a prince, too, homme.”

“Ya didn’t exactly give me a favorable first impression in that respect. Ain’t every day my parents roll out the red carpet only ta have our esteemed guest tell me I look like a troll.”

“Jus’ weren’t what Remy wuz expecting.”

“Likewise. Remember?” Logan’s eyes swept over him accusingly. “My blushin’ bride.” Logan was already growing frustrated with the conversation.

His stomach growled in agreement. He went to the chamber door and opened it, bellowing down the hall.

“PAIGE! COME!”

“Sire?” The answering voice was girlish and held enthusiasm for whatever command she received.

“Breakfast. Tell Clementine ta send up enough fer two. Add some juice and broth.”

“Tired of nothin’ but drinkin’,” Remy complained from the bed.

“When yer well enough ta start feedin’ yerself, ya get ta eat a little more,” Logan shrugged. It was no skin off his nose when Remy scowled at him very unprettily.

Logan took satisfaction in that dark look. It was fun to rile him up, and he enjoyed the slant of those arched, tapered dark brows and the tiny lines bunched between them.

When she returned with the tray, Logan stopped her at the door while she tried to peer around his shoulders into the room.

“We’re fine with this for now. Rouse Jean-Paul. We’ll need a bath sent up soon.”

“Both of you, sire?”

“Just his Highness, Prince Remy. I’ll handle my own washing in my parents’ chamber once he’s finished.” She curtsied and rushed off. Logan sighed and brought the tray to the bedside table.

“Eat whatever yer in the mood for. Don’t overdo it,” Logan warned him as he lifted the cover from the food. Remy’s stomach lurched slightly, the fragrances almost overwhelming when he hadn’t eaten for so long. He tweaked a slice of bread from the dish and chewed it with little enthusiasm. Logan poured some juice into his empty water cup.

“Don’ hafta baby me.”

“’Course not,” Logan shrugged as he helped himself to a link of lamb sausage. He bit into it heartily, rumbling in contentment around it. The scent of the meat was almost too rich, but Remy’s taste buds remembered too well the flavor of such a delicacy.

“Want a piece of dat.”

“Sure? It’s spicy.”

“Dere’s never been a spice dat Remy couldn’t handle,” he informed him haughtily. Logan speared another link of sausage and held it out to him on a fork, blowing on it first to cool it. “Don’ need ya t’spoon feed me,” he sneered.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Logan assured him, quickly releasing the fork and throwing up his hands in surrender. Remy demonstrated this by taking a too hearty, too quick bite of the succulent meat.

“AAAGGHH!!!”

“Ouch,” Logan muttered as Remy nearly choked. His eyes had widened and he furiously fanned his mouth, beckoning to Logan to hand him something to drink. Logan handed him the juice and soon regretted that. A hasty gulp of juice made the searing hot pepper in the sausage bite more deeply into Remy’s tongue. Logan realized his mistake and then shoved a handful of the bread at him. Remy eyes were round with shock, then accusing as he chewed on the bread, catching his breath and his bearings.

His entire face was flushed and indignant. “What de hell wuz in dat?”

“Lamb,” Logan shrugged, “the blood from the meat, onions, garlic, some fat, and a few secret ingredients.”

“Dat’s one secret ya need ta keep ta yerself,” Remy thundered. “Ya always eat dat?”

“Almost every morning. Clem knows I like my hot peppers.”

“Hot peppers?”

“Yup. Serrano, mostly. Habaneros are a little mellower, though.” Remy glared and leaned back against the pillows, already tired of breakfast.

“T’ink you’re tryin’ t’kill me.”

“I haven’t known you long enough.”

*

After coaxing Remy to have more broth and bread – a task not unlike trying to reason with a two-year-old – Logan left him to his ablutions once he checked his wounds.

“Gonna need ta change these,” he said, nodding to his bandages.

“Gonna hafta forgive Remy fo’ not bein’ a little more ent’usiastic ‘bout dat. Ev’ry time I close my eyes, pain’s involved, not t’mention sharp objects.”

“Sorry,” Logan admitted quietly. “Wasn’t much else we could do. Ya had an infection. A bad one.” Logan’s fists tightened in his lap. “We were worried about yer recovery.” Then he remembered himself. “Fer yer son’s sake. Don’t wanna keep ya here any more than ya wanna stay.”

But Logan was gentle as he unwrapped the bandage on Remy’s leg, stroking the slightly raised flesh that was beginning to heal into a neat scar. Remy’s shapely calf was firm and warm beneath his fingertips.

Remy shivered beneath his feather-light touch and his big toe twitched. He already felt too exposed, wearing nothing but the drawers, and Logan had to peel back the covers to examine him. It was beginning to feel entirely too personal.

Logan, too, looked disconcerted and uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and discarded the old bandage.

“Jean-Paul can redo it once yer cleaned up. I’ll have some clothes sent up in the meantime.”

“We’re not exactly de same size.”

“I know that,” Logan tsked in disgust. “Don’t worry. I won’t make ya settle fer hand-me-downs.” He didn’t let Remy know that he was currently lounging in a pair of Logan’s drawers. That secret knowledge made Logan’s cheeks feel warm.

Logan crossed the room and opened the door.

“Where ya goin’?” Remy called out. He sounded indignant.

“Ta wash, and ta start my day.”

“What about my day?” Remy reminded him. “Ain’t gonna jus’ lie here all day in dis little room.”

“No. That’s exactly what yer gonna do fer now, Highness.”

“Like hell.”

“Ya wanna see it that way, fine, then. Welcome ta hell.” Without a further word, Logan left his room, catching Remy’s low curses on his way out. He sighed.

Jean-Paul and Pietro showed up a few minutes later with the tub and filled it with steaming water.

“Do you need help with those?” Pietro inquired, looking entirely too interested as he nodded at Remy’s garment.

“Don’t strain yourself, we’ll help you, Highness,” Jean-Paul added enthusiastically as they carefully freed him from the covers and helped him sit up. They both held their breath as they took in his masculine beauty.

“I can manage…” Remy began, but they were already helping him out of the drawers, fingers grazing his smooth, firm skin. Their touch tickled and made him blush, something he wasn’t in the habit of. He had manservants before, but perhaps none who were so…effusive?

“We’ll take good care of you, sire,” Jean-Paul promised with alacrity.

“Consider this your second home,” Pietro added as they guided him to the tub. Remy still felt weak and was grateful for the hold they had on him as he stepped gingerly into the hot water. The shock of the heat soon gave way to relief as it swallowed up his aching muscles when he settled in. Logan’s valets set about gathering together towels and soap, and they held up selections of clothing for him to wear.

“This might go nicely with your eyes, sire,” Pietro offered, holding up a black tunic. Remy shrugged, then nodded. They considered his feet, then settled on a pair of slippers instead of boots for the time being. The trousers were made of soft, breathable black fabric instead of the homespun or plain cotton Logan favored to rest more comfortably against his scars.

They finally had their way with his hair. Jean-Paul massaged soft soap into the long, thick ripples and was mindful of the cut Remy had on his brow. Remy sighed beneath his ministrations; it felt so good against his scalp. Pietro attacked him from the opposite end, scrubbing his feet with a small brush and kneading the balls and heels. He couldn’t fault the hospitality. His manhood twitched and bobbed to life beneath the water, however, when he blew a draft of cool air over his toes. They carefully bent him forward and poured pitchers of water over his head to rinse away the foam, shielding his beautiful eyes in the process.

“Much better,” he rumbled as Jean-Paul wrung out his hair and began to dry it with a towel. He then let the long mass hang over the edge of the tub while they washed the rest of him. The sensations of two pairs of hands running wash rags over his skin was decadent, traveling from the crest of his shoulder, all the way down to soap the webbing between his fingers. No ripple or crease escaped their careful attention. Runnels of soapy foam ran over his pebbled nipples and taut abdomen, pooling in his navel. Jean-Paul’s mouth went dry.

“Is the water still warm enough, sire?”

“Mmmmmm…”

“If you wish to sit up a bit more, or perhaps kneel upright, we could finish getting the back of you, Highness.” This was from Pietro, who was kneading the sensitive hollow of the back of Remy’s knee.

They supported him as he did the latter, although the motion was slightly painful, but when he was fully upright, water sluicing back down his body into the tub, Jean-Paul and Pietro’s eyes dilated with lust.

Magnificent. Remy’s sex was throbbing with the rush of blood evoked by Pietro’s earlier attention to his feet and the languorous strokes of Jean-Paul’s wash cloth over his torso and neck. He was erect, rosy and flushed.

“I’ll…just get your back, sire.” Pietro let Jean-Paul make the suggestion and tried to avert his eyes, but he was riveted by the picture Remy made in his…entirety.

*

That was the scene Logan walked in on as he returned fully clothed from his parents’ chamber.

Both of his valets were rapt with their chore, eyes roving over Remy’s body hungrily. The younger prince’s skin glowed, rosy, clean and golden from his bath, and Jean-Paul’s washcloth was running down his lower back toward its destination, the supple mounds of Remy’s glutes. A trickle of water and foam was sliding down into the crease…

Logan swallowed hollowly. His fists tightened at his sides.

Shock turned to jealous fury.

“Off!” he flared. “OUT!”

“Sire!” Jean-Paul yelped. He chucked the washcloth back into the tub and he and Pietro jerked to their feet, backing away from the tub. Far away. Remy’s head swiveled around to peer over his shoulder, meeting Logan’s gaze.

The prince’s hazel eyes were dilated and his heavy brows slammed down over them dangerously. His nostrils flared with the effort to maintain some semblance of control.

He isn’t anything to me. Not my bride, not my groom, not my anything. But Logan’s body reacted so fiercely to the sight of two other men taking such obvious delight in his body. He was sorely tempted to drag both of them outside to horsewhip them, but then he recovered himself.

His breathing wasn’t quite under control yet. He drew great drafts of air into his lungs, making his broad chest expand impossibly wide.

“Yer finished here,” Logan informed them, tone clipped.

“Let us…just help him out of the tub,” Pietro began meekly.

“That won’t be necessary. You have other duties elsewhere.”

“But…” Both his valets were beet-red.

“NO. BUTS.”

“No, sire. Thank you, sire.” Jean-Paul hurried past Logan, Pietro close behind him. They nearly stumbled into each as they backed out of the room, bowing to Logan on their way out.

“Damn,” Remy muttered for the second time that morning. Logan moved swiftly and with purpose through the chamber, gathering up towels and blotting up the water that had splashed out of the tub before the floor could grow too slick.

He seized him beneath the armpits and tugged him to his feet. The sensation of being pulled up so fast was unsettling, since Remy was still weak as a kitten. Logan’s rough hands were a sharp contrast from his valets’. The cool air chilled his damp flesh as Remy stumbled out of the tub.

A towel was hastily wrapped around his torso, whipping around him as two burly arms gathered him close, protecting him from the cold. Remy had little time to process the feel of Logan’s body pressed against his, or the effect it had on him, however, as he was lifted up like a babe, carried across the room and dumped unceremoniously back into bed.

“ACK!”

“Stay,” Logan barked as he stalked to the corridor. “COME GATHER UP THE BATH! I DON’T CARE WHO!” he bellowed. He tossed the shirt at Remy. “Get decent.”

“M’arm,” Remy reminded him as Logan glared down at him.

Those eyes…

…was Logan jealous? Remy watched him as he continued moving about, gathering the bar of soap and chucking it back into the tub, along with the brush Pietro had used on his feet.

“Ya can’t manage?”

“Ain’t easy wit’ de splint.”

Logan’s sigh was ragged and long-suffering. He strode to the bed and snatched up the tunic. “Hold still.”

Wrestling someone else into their clothes was perhaps more awkward than yanking them off of them, Logan realized. He slowed down and was more careful as he eased Remy’s bad arm into the sleeve, which was thankfully loose. Remy’s skin felt cool and smooth beneath his hands, but he steeled himself against the sensation of handling him so intimately, exercising the utmost discretion as he helped him back into the drawers and trousers. He trained his eyes on Remy’s face the entire time. Remy found it disconcerting, to say the least.

“Put these on. Don’t catch a chill through yer feet, or yer gonna end up just as sick as before,” Logan grumbled at him as he roughly shoved Remy’s slippers on his feet. Remy suppressed a chuckle. “What?”

“Ya done manhandling me?”

“Pretty much,” he said, already backing away from Remy, even though his physical presence was more intoxicating than he wanted to admit.

“Ya gonna leave me here with dripping hair?” Logan realized guiltily that Jean-Paul never had the chance to finish grooming him.

“Come an’ sit by the fire, then.”

Logan guided him more carefully, yet still grudgingly, toward a chair beside the grate, easing him down. He found the towel he’d used to wrap Remy earlier and stood behind him, gathering up his long spill of hair. He began to vigorously rub his scalp and ears.

Remy surprised him, humming in contentment.

“Feels good,” he murmured. “Thank you, James.”

It felt odd, hearing him call him that.

“Logan,” he corrected him. “It’s James Logan. I prefer my middle name.”

“Suits you.”

“Glad ya approve,” he grunted as he continued his task, squeezing the excess moisture from the length of thick, luxuriously soft hair. The dark chestnut came alive with auburn highlights by the glow from the fire and the sunlight peeking inside as Logan worked his hands through it.

Without being asked, Logan found a silver hairbrush and began tugging it through the tangles, perhaps being rougher than he needed to, but Remy didn’t complain. He’d long been accustomed to different pairs of hands at the back of his head, building up a tough scalp from years of having the heavy mass braided and combed.

The jerky, swift brush strokes slowed and lengthened as the tangles were gradually worked free. Logan’s calloused fingertips grazed his nape as he gathered it up in a crude ponytail to brush underneath it. Remy was nearly lulled to sleep as the bristles moved over his scalp and temples. The scent of the sweet soap wafted up and tickled Logan’s nose, mingling with the young prince’s natural pheromones and the male tang of his flesh. He breathed it in more deeply, eyes closing a moment to better drink it in. Remy was drowsy and content, barely noticing when Logan’s hands paused.

A stupor drifted over both of them as Logan worked the last of the tangles loose and just brushed the hair for pleasure. It grew fuller and silkier as it dried, expanding in volume. Remy half-dozed, head tipped back slightly against Logan’s ribcage. Logan’s body was reacting to that contact, to the tender grip he had on him.

He’d gone erect, painfully, unable to be ignored or dismissed. The chair was the only thing between them that kept him from shaming himself.

Remy’s eyes drifted open in brief confusion, staring up at him when Logan caressed the lean, smooth line of his cheek before he could stop himself. Again, Remy leaned into his touch, closing his eyes in pleasure.

Logan’s gut clenched. No! What was he doing?

He cleared his throat and backed away, leaving Remy disoriented and disappointed.

“Yer fine. It’s dry. I think…yer fine,” he grumbled. “Gotta go.”

“Where?” Remy demanded.

“Anywhere…out. I mean out.”

“What am I gonna do all day?”

“Be resourceful. Figure it out,” Logan snapped as he hurried out. Behind him, Remy threw up his hands and let them slap his thighs in frustration.