"I hate him," Rosalyn muttered, kicking wrinkles in the rather valuable rug under her slippers as her tiny body slumped deeper and deeper into the divan. "Mummy's always so cross after he visits—for days and days after."
Logan may have agreed, but he held his tongue regardless. The sulking of little princesses might be all well and good for another year or two yet, but young princes were more likely to get their ears chewed off for such whining. Instead, he clenched his jaw just a little and did the mature thing. He shut up, and kept pretending to read.
"Logan—" Kick, kick, kick went little feet against the intricately patterned silk. The rug was older than the pair of them put together, a gift all the way from Samarkand, but he'd long ago given up trying to tell Rosalyn anything of the sort. Mother had another one, in any case, hanging proudly on the wall in her chambers. "You're eyes aren't even moving. You're not reading at all, you great fibber."
Letting out the longest, most put-upon sigh he possessed, Logan tilted the book down onto his stomach and glanced over at the aggravating puddle that was his sister. "For goodness sake, Rose, don't you have any more dolls to behead? I know Sir Walter brought you back another toy sword—"
"Shush," she hissed, bolting upright with eyes wide as saucers. "It's not— Jasper will take it like the last one!"
"He wouldn't take it," Logan began, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair and propping his chin up on one palm. "If you didn't try to slay every chicken you happen upon. The cook was furious the last time, and we didn't have any eggs or cakes for a fortnight."
Her glare might have been more effective if she hadn't been sporting the frizziest cowlick in the history of Albion, and it was all Logan could do to keep his face composed. As hilarious as her mild sulk and frightful hair might be, it would hardly be worth the laughter to wake up with beetles trying to eat his toes again.
It only lasted a moment anyway, after which she threw herself back onto the divan and began moaning in earnest. "He's terrible and mean, and I hate him. You're the prince; tell him to go."
If only things were that simple. "Well you're the princess, little sister, and you've got yourself a sword. You tell him to go." He stopped himself just before adding and give him a good whack if he refuses. No need to give her ideas, after all.
The ensuing silence was tense, with true concern for their mother simmering just under the surface, and with a soft grunt Logan dragged himself up to his feet. A bit of shuffling later, and he settled comfortably onto the divan with Rosalyn curled up against his chest.
It was irrational and useless to entertain notions of protecting such a remarkable, capable woman as his mother, but the thoughts lingered nonetheless. She was still his mother, and he'd witnessed the darkness these visits left in her eyes too many times. Why she allowed that scoundrel to waltz about the castle as he pleased was an eternal mystery, and Logan refused to consider the salacious rumours that occasionally flitted about court as anything more than rubbish.
There were many more tongues wagging, and more often, about romance between his mother and Sir Walter, and the prince knew those stories were complete twaddle. Tales of a beautiful, solitary queen's possible dalliances were forever popular, but the public loved their Hero too much to tolerate much slandering.
Logan could hardly think of anything more insulting than the idea his mother might take such a snake to her bed. Reaver might be a Hero, but that didn't mean he wasn't a villain as well.