Diamond in the Rough

Patience

Summary: The two men run out of it with each other.

Author’s Note: Is it demented that I’m having fun giving these two a hard time?

Special thanks to anyone who’s visited my comments section, I appreciate the kind words, many of which made me grin. Widely.

Logan fumed the whole way into town, despite the gorgeous weather surrounding him.

Maverick’s ears pricked and his gait quickened without Logan urging him any faster. He felt the prince’s anxiety as they traveled through the wide streets.

Victor was mere footsteps behind him on his own mount, watching his back thoughtfully.

“Full of vinegar this mornin’, aintcha?”

“Pfft…”

“Thought as much.”

“Try gettin’ as little sleep as I’ve had in the past three days.”

“Why? Whole point of bein’ a prince is ta have other people do the frettin’ for ya. That’s why ya have servants, and all those empty rooms.”

“I can’t leave him alone yet. He needs someone ta keep on eye on him.”

“Sure he does.”

Logan pulled his mount to a halt. His head swiveled around dangerously, and poison radiated from his intense hazel eyes. Victor grunted, but he didn’t drop his gaze.

“Ya could leave him ta Jean-Paul and Pietro.”

“They’d love that. And to answer that, hell, no.”

“They always were a little touchy feely,” Victor agreed sagely. “Why don’tcha send him and his happy ass on his merry way?”

“Use a little respect, Vic.”

“Sorry. He’s a prince,” Vic sniffed. “My mistake.” His tone suggested that didn’t make any difference.

“He’s not one hundred percent. He needs his strength for his journey back, and it’s two days by carriage to his palace. I can’t just send him alone through the canyon and over those mountains until he’s well. His fever’s broken, and his leg is on the mend. He still doesn’t have much use of his arm, either.”

“Fair enough. But ya don’t hafta play nursemaid.”

“Bite yer tongue.”

Victor snorted, and his smirk was knowing. “Maybe he should be bitin’ yer tongue instead. So much fer a royal wedding, eh?”

The last thing he saw was the dangerous look in Logan’s eye before he rounded on him and savagely jerked him off his horse, knocking him to the ground.

Victor rose to his feet and rubbed his hindquarters. “Ow…”

“If ya wanna stay on my good side, and by good side, I mean I won’t tear strips outta yer hide, then ya might wanna put a lid on yer opinions fer the rest of the trip.”

*

It was tax day. It wasn’t Logan’s favorite duty as the future king, but he looked forward to opportunities to greet his countrymen and see firsthand how they were faring under his parents’ rule.

But the children looked forward to his visits, because Prince James was easygoing and kind beneath his gruff demeanor. They peered out from the drab cottages’ windows and stared after him, frequently challenging each other to pull some small trick or prank at his expense, but these attempts always failed. The prince was rumored to have ears sharper than the quickest fox and eyes in the back of his shaggy head.

At first glance, he was an awesome sight, roughly garbed in dark homespun and a silver armor chest plate engraved with his family’s crest. The seal was the ornately rendered head of a howling wolf, and some would say it suited him. The armor was a mere formality, something Victor insisted on as his groom and royal bodyguard. He completed his image of his country’s sovereign with a flowing black cloak and shining black leather boots. What Logan lacked in height he made up for in mass, and he was an imposing figure mounted atop Maverick.

Even his horse’s strides were no-nonsense, pounding the stones along the street as he entered the city gates.

He tethered Maverick at the stable yard behind a tiny inn and gave a young boy two silver coins to brush him while he made his rounds. Victor walked beside him, nodding in silent greeting.

His appearance alone terrified the locals. Logan was amused to watch the effect he had on the townsfolk with just a withering glance or low, rumbling growl in his throat if anyone came too close.

His first stop was the shanty row on the north end. Logan tsked at the sight of some of the children running about with no shoes and covered in grime. He stopped by a small cottage that was perhaps the least pitiful on the street. Logan was relieved to see a half a cord of firewood stacked along the left wall, and the roof appeared to have been patched recently.

He knocked on the door, loudly enough to be heard but not to intimidate. Logan heard light, quick footsteps coming closer from inside before the door was jerked open.

“Oh! Highness! Your Highness! Good morning,” the occupant cried, hand fluttering over her chest, brushing at imaginary lint and stains as she reflexively checked her appearance.

“Mrs. Jones,” Logan offered kindly as she curtsied, then knelt and kissed his signet. He gently tugged her to her feet.

The attractive young widow was roughly in her thirties, and as she let him inside, he heard the laughter of children and smelled a pot of soup.

“Sire,” she began, “I would like to thank you on behalf of my children, and my late husband, Luke, for your kindness. We’ve had no more problems with the leaks in the roof since your men came to repair it.”

“Noticed that,” Logan agreed.

“Er…about the taxes,” she began. Logan held up his hand in refusal.

“No. Not to worry. I won’t take the bread out of your children’s mouth until you have a reliable source of income.” She brightened considerably.

“Thank you, sire.” Logan’s attention was diverted by a loud squeal as two children came barreling out from the bedroom into the kitchen. A boy of about five darted around the furniture, dangling a dollie over his head, just out of his younger sister’s reach. Logan was surprised at their appearance; they were dark-skinned, just like his prospective mother-in-law, Candra.

“Lucas! Abby! BEHAVE!” Jessica Jones ordered in clipped tones. They skidded to a stop and stared with round eyes at their mother’s imposing company. Just outside the cottage door, Victor peered inside, then gave them a gruff look that nearly made them retreat back the way they came.

She turned back to Logan apologetically. “I’m so sorry, sire, I-“

“No. Please. They’re enjoying themselves, and I caught you in the middle of your cooking,” Logan declared. He approached the children, who were standing bolt upright and stock still. “Are you the man of the house, son?”

“Yes,” he yelped. His sister kicked him and whispered something in his ear. “Yes, sire,” he corrected himself. Logan nodded solemnly.

“Are you taking care of your mother?”

He nodded meekly.

“Are you doing your chores?”

“Papa taught me how to fish,” he provided.

“Hm,” Logan murmured. “That’s a big responsibility.”

“I can do it. I can catch a lot of fish, sire!”

“Me, too!” his sister chimed in. Behind Logan’s back, their mother flushed and bit back a hint of a smile, then composed herself.

Logan knelt and hunkered down before them and inspected each one, taking their hands in his. He noticed their nails were short, clean and neat. Their clothing had scant, patched holes but were impeccably clean and free of stains. Abby’s hair was braided in tight plaits, no mean feat since her locks were bushy and coarse like her father’s.

“Are you keeping your brother in line?” She giggled. Logan hadn’t cracked a smile once, but he reached out and tweaked her nose. Abby nodded, then hugged her rescued dollie to her chest.

The children stirred a low current of yearning in his heart, and oh, how it hurt.

Logan stood and sighed. “Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes, sire? May I get you anything? Have you broke your fast yet?”

“Could you spare a piece of that good bread?” She automatically hurried to her pine table and began to slice off generous portions. While she poured him a glass of milk, she kept up a string of chatter.

“It’s been so hard, keeping the house in order and in good repair since I lost my man, sire. But there are many things that I can do to earn a living, if need be.”

“Have you any family?”

“My husband’s brother, Daniel Rand. But none left of my own. He already has a wife and children.”

“I see.” Jessica was young yet, and still desirable. Logan’s main concern was that she was a likely target, if anyone wanted to take advantage of the fact that she was a woman living alone.

They spoke a while longer. Abby dutifully retrieved Logan’s empty dishes and took them away.

“Lovely child,” Logan remarked. Jessica blushed and ducked her head, but that gesture didn’t hide her smile.

“I adore them. They’re all I have.”

“They’re a treasure. And they must be taken care of. I know you will continue to do an excellent job of it, and I intend to help.” Logan rose from his seat and took her hands in his. “They’ll go to school.” She gasped. “I’ll furnish their tuition. I’m also opening an account in your name at the local tailor’s and the mercantile. They’ll provide you with whatever you need for their schooling and well-being, clothes, books, you name it.”

Logan was the one who flushed uncomfortably when she instantly dropped to her knees again, this time kissing his hand so profusely he had to ask her politely to stop.

Once he took his leave, Logan and Victor continued their rounds.

“I take it ya didn’t make her pay her tax again.”

“Ya knew I wouldn’t,” he reminded him.

“Soft touch.”

“Say it a little louder, why don’tcha.”

“Kids had ya wrapped around their little fingers.”

“Ya wouldn’t have stood a chance yerself.”

“Naw. Probably not.” Then Victor sobered. “How’s she gonna manage?”

“What’s the point in bein’ prince if ya can’t use yer connections?”

The rest of his day didn’t yield as many satisfying results. Logan spent the afternoon listening to his residents wrangle with him, begging him, pleading with him, conveniently lying to him and so on, and so forth. He received a generous sum of taxes overall and issued writs of promise to several homes who were slightly late and willing to pay.

Victor took mixed enjoyment from his profession when Logan called on him to enforce the rule of the land regarding citizen conduct. Logan had no patience for domestic abuse.

He stood aside when Victor pushed his way into a humble, crumbling shack and hauled a tall, rangy man out by the scruff of his neck.

“Yer wife asked ya nicely ta stop,” he growled as he kicked him into a murky, fetid water trough.

“She wouldn’t mind me-…uuuurrrgghhk!”

“Perhaps it’s because she’s exhausted,” Logan pointed out. The wife in question sat huddled in the corner while her son daubed at a cut across her cheek with a dirty rag. His eyes were too old for his face, and they held a hard gleam of one already jaded from what his life had to offer so far. “Son?”

“Yes, sire?”

“He won’t hurt her again.” His shoulders relaxed and some of the tension left the corners of his mouth. “Or you.”

“Thank…you, Highness,” his mother said. She attempted to rise, but Logan interrupted her efforts, instead helping her into her chair. “Please, how can I serve you?”

“I think I’ve underserved you,” he said gruffly. “How long has this been going on?”

“He’s not always like this!”

“Can you tell me how long?” he prodded, brows drawing together.

“Nay, sire. It’s always been this way,” her son said. When Logan attempted to look him in the eye, he bowed his face in shame.

Logan came out of the shabby home just soon enough to stop Victor from drowning the boy’s father in the trough.

“Does it make ya feel big ta beat a woman? Someone smaller than ya?” It was almost laughable; Victor topped the man by more than a head. He pulled him back up, hair shining with slimy water that was running in runnels from his nose and the corners of his mouth. His eyes were huge, bloodshot and terrified, and Logan smelled alcohol on his breath when he drew close.

“It’s tax time,” Logan said, too softly.

“I d-don’t h-have it, s-sire,” he insisted, teeth chattering.

“Oh, I know why you don’t have it,” he assured him. “I can also see why your son doesn’t have shoes for his feet and why your lovely wife is missing a tooth. You sicken me.”

“S-sire…?”

“You’re going to dry yourself off. Then you’re going to dry yourself out. Victor, take him to the constable.” Logan suppressed a wince at the sound of his wife’s wail from inside, but he heard a hint of relief in her tone, too.

Logan came back inside. “Your tax can wait.” He spoke to the boy over his mother’s head while she sobbed. He had his arms wrapped protectively and awkwardly around her. “You’re the man of the house for now.”

“For how long?” He didn’t sound as scared as he did resigned, as though he knew, even hoped this day would come.

“As long as you need. Expect a visit from my court’s physician this evening. Have you any family?”

“My grandpa. Ma’s pa.”

“Do you like him?” His face brightened.

“He hasn’t seen me for a long time. I’ve gotten big since then.”

“Send for him. I’ll be in touch. Whatever it takes for you to stay with him for a while, or for him to come here, it’ll be done.” Logan reached into his belt pouch and pressed two silver coins into the boy’s hand. “For supper.” The conspicuous lack of cooking smells told Logan they hadn’t anything to eat that day, and the boy’s eyes shone with hunger.

*

Clementine had little tolerance for charm. However, it depended on the method of delivery.

“Why hasn’t anyone snapped ya up yet, chere?”

“Stop!” she giggled. Giggled. Logan would have been appalled to hear his normally no-nonsense housekeeper and royal chef carrying on like that.

Remy charmed his way downstairs, carried down with only slight difficulty – and much enthusiasm – by Pietro and Jean-Paul. He sat at the head of the long dining table as she ladled him a bowl of bisque.

“Don’ tell Remy ya haven’t had more offers than ya can count?”

“Oh, your Highness!” She swatted him playfully with her serving towel. He smiled disarmingly, and his ruby eyes held a glint of mischief. Clementine continued to fuss over him, unfolding his napkin for him and buttering one of the warm rolls she served along with the soup.

Remy silently wondered how Prince James would react to his interpretation of “staying put.” As nice as his host’s bedchamber was, Remy was bored silly and longed for more human contact, above and beyond the occasional servant peering around the doorframe to stare at him. And Jean-Paul and Pietro had a gleam in their eyes that promised mischief and a more visceral reaction from Logan if he caught them again attempting to “groom” him. Not that it would have been a bad way to while away an afternoon. Both young men were quite striking, and admittedly, their hands felt decadent as they roamed over his body, but Remy craved a challenge, namely someone who wouldn’t fawn and swoon over him, somehow…

The past few months had been tiresome and fruitless.

The procession of prospective brides made Remy’s head spin. Princesses, duchesses, countesses and other noblewomen of varying pedigree came by carriage to his parents’ court when he wasn’t sent to their respective homes himself. Remy grew as weary of entertaining them on the palace grounds as he did of constantly telling his servants to pack his trunks or prepare his carriage for the journeys.

At least there had been a variety, he mused.

Giggly. Bland. Serious. Nervous. Coy. Not so coy. Obvious. Blonde. Buxom. Slight. Pinched. Nasal. Shrill…perhaps his least favorite flavor, he had to admit. Braying. Shy. Flirtatious. Lovely yet vapid. Homely yet willing to please.

Each visit followed the same script. In rolled the carriage through the gates. Out rolled the red carpet. Out stepped the princess/duchess/whatnot and up she came, simpering and waving the entire way to an anxious crowd.

Inevitably his eyes would glaze over as soon as they opened their mouths. They mistook it for rapt interest.

His mother’s reactions were a helpful meter of each woman’s performance. He rated them on a scale of “promising” to “appalling” based on Candra’s expressions over dinner. He nearly choked on a mouthful of meat and gravy when she made cutting motions across her neck as one described her ideal husband as being someone “who will pamper me.” She’d already lost him at “good listener.”

The determining factor that made or broke their chances with no variation was Etienne. To their credit, most of his brides came equipped with the knowledge that Remy was not only a widow, but a father. Unfortunately, not all of them were blessed with anything resembling a nurturing instinct. Many of them were either the youngest daughter of their families or were the only child, both equally dispensable during a time when it was more fortuitous to have a son.

Etienne made himself scarce with little prompting. The first few encounters sent him scampering back to his play room or to the castle’s library to hide himself amongst the dusty, leather-bound volumes. He was a bright child, precocious, sharp and easily as handsome as his father.

He abhorred their fingers pinching his cheeks and their overwhelmingly sweet perfume. Etienne missed his mother so much that any other woman occupying his mother’s rooms or using her things was a sacrilege. Much worse was the sight of any of these female interlopers crowding his father’s personal space or laying their hands on him. That was simply unforgivable, punishable by small objects that flew suspiciously out of nowhere and, coincidentally, or even “accidentally” pelted the target…nay, the princess…on the bum.

Etienne didn’t want a new mother. He merely wanted his mother. In lieu of that, he wanted to see his father happy, even if that meant being happy with only Etienne in his life. That was just the way it had to be, he reasoned in his seven-year-old mind.

At the moment, his father missed him fiercely.

*

Remy sat patiently and graciously as Paige spooned soup into his mouth teasingly, mischief written in her blue eyes. Clementine was conveniently ensconced in the kitchen, already making a blackberry buckle when he “innocently” suggested it was his favorite pastry.

Remy didn’t even look up at the sound of a heavy door creaking open and thudding shut, followed by heavy footsteps.

“You have a little dab of soup right there, sire,” Paige murmured dreamily.

“Here?” Remy used his “bad” arm and pointed to a random spot on his chin.

“No.” She giggled, flicking her eyes over the spot in question, then staring at him through her lashes.

“Here?” He tried again.

“Here,” she said, deciding he was hopeless, but perhaps not as helpless as he let on. She tugged his napkin from his collar and daubed the spot by the corner of his mouth.

“Is it gone, chere?”

“Ooh.” She pouted. “Not…quite. Here, let me…” She licked her fingertip and took the liberty of gently rubbing the now imaginary soup droplet from his skin, enjoying the hint of stubble there. It made him look deliciously rugged and male.

“Better?”

“Almost…sire…” His ruby eyes entranced her. His voice was so silky and it thrummed through her veins, stroking her. His lips were so close, so tempting, and her eyes began to drift shut as his warm breath steam-

“OFF!”

Paige’s gasp was sharp and she whirled back from the table, nearly falling over a chair beside her in the process. She clotheslined herself over the top of it and caught herself before she could fall the rest of the way to the floor. Her blue eyes were round marbles of shock and fear.

She was staring into the eyes of an angered beast who wore her future king’s armored chest plate and dark boots. His nostrils flared and his chest heaved, massive as a bear’s. His hands were fisted and white-knuckled, and if she didn’t know she was staring at Prince James, Paige swore he would have surely struck her.

“OUT!”

“Highness-“

“OUT! NOW!”

“He needed help…soup,” she offered meekly. His arm whipped out toward the door, finger stabbing the way for her to follow.

“Kitchen. Now. Go.” She gathered up her apron and full skirts and ran. She remembered herself at the door, however, turning to curtsy and back her way out.

“Red as a damned beet,” Remy marveled, whistling low.

“What…the hell d’ya think yer doin’ down here, seducin’ my cook’s scullery girl?”

Remy shrugged. With his good hand, he gracefully lifted his half-empty bowl.

“Soup?”