Chapter 52
Chapter
Fifty-Two
HAVEN
The town of Takir was charming in ways that made my chest ache with unexpected longing.
In the center square, laughing children skated on a frozen pond, their knitted scarves streaming behind them like brightly colored ribbons.
Their laughter echoed off the neat, half-timbered buildings that rose three, even four, stories tall.
Even the air felt different. Cleaner, lighter, touched with the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread. It was nothing like the perpetual stench of sewage and desperation I’d grown up with in Grimswood.
“This way.” Zane, who held Grace in his arms, rode toward a corner building.
I followed him, even as I watched couples walking hand in hand. A woman’s laughter caught my attention, and I turned my head to see her smiling at a young man who wore a besotted expression on his face.
We stopped beneath a hand-painted sign featuring a row of yellow ducklings. Above the baby ducks, an ornate script proclaimed the establishment’s name—the Waddling Duck.
Before I could even remove my feet from the stirrups, Remy had dismounted and taken Buttercup’s reins. His hand on my elbow steadied me when my feet hit the cobbled street.
Rather than mock the wobble in my knees, he said, “We’ve been in the saddle for a long time.”
I gaped at him before finally nodding my thanks, wishing I didn’t need his help and too tired to pretend otherwise.
A boy trotted up to us. “Take your horses to the stable, sir?”
“Please.” Remy tossed the child a coin without releasing his hold on me.
“I’m okay now.” I resisted shaking off his hand. “I don’t need your help.”
He released me as a flush darkened his cheeks. “Wouldn’t want you to stumble.”
“What I meant to say was that I’m steady. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” There was no rancor in his voice. No arrogance. No conceit.
When had his attitude toward me changed?
When he’d first held Grace in the ruins of her village?
When he’d spoken that prayer over the mass grave?
Or had it been building gradually, each moment with the baby chipping away at his hostile facade?
Whatever the cause, this wasn’t the sneering man I’d met in the clearing.
Zane remained atop his horse, and his eyes sparkled as if he was in on a joke Remy and I had missed. “There’s a garrison on the other side of town. I need to tell the commander what happened in Banvil.”
I didn’t want him to leave me with Remy, but I swallowed my objection. The two men had ridden all the way to Takir because I insisted. I could hardly complain when Zane took a few minutes to inform the military about a deadly raid.
“Give me Grace.” Remy held out his arms for the baby, and the expression on his ridiculously handsome face softened.
When he wasn’t scowling at me, he was unbelievably appealing.
The thought annoyed me. I’d told the woman in white I didn’t want him.
Yet here I was, noticing the way his eyes warmed when he looked at Grace.
Zane relinquished the baby with obvious reluctance. “Take care of her.”
Remy rolled his eyes. “She’ll be here when you get back.” Then he opened the Waddling Duck’s door and waited for me to enter.
As soon as we stepped inside the Waddling Duck, warmth embraced us—coming not just from the crackling hearth, but from something ineffable in the very walls.
Afternoon sunlight poured through diamond-paned windows, and the air brimmed with the mingled scents of good ale, fresh lemons, and something that might have been cinnamon bread.
Unlike the taverns I’d visited in Legacia, this place felt safe. Men and women sat together at wooden tables worn smooth by countless conversations, their voices creating a gentle hum of contentment. A woman’s laugh rang out from the corner—not shrill or nervous, but genuinely delighted.
I found myself relaxing for the first time in weeks.
Remy entered behind me, and a hush fell.
A gray-haired gentleman emerged from behind the bar, stumbling over his feet in his hurry. “Your Highness, welcome.” He bowed.
Your Highness? That explained so much—the conceit, the arrogance, the swagger. He’d been raised to believe his opinions mattered more than anyone else’s.
But that didn’t explain the man who’d buried strangers and gently sung lullabies to Grace.
I turned and stared at him, feeling a moment’s satisfaction when a flush rose from his collar. He looked … embarrassed. That was new.
“Please, Your Highness, what may I get you? We have the best ale in all of Takir. Sally”—he turned back to the bar—“a pitcher of ale for our distinguished guests.” His gaze traveled the full tables, and he paled, realizing he couldn’t offer us a place to sit.
A portly man rose from a table in the corner. “Gwen, let’s move to the bar.”
Gwen, a pretty woman with apples on her cheeks and a dimple in her chin, nodded. She stood, dropped a curtsy in our direction, then followed her companion to the bar. He offered her the remaining barstool before claiming the empty space next to her.
“Please sit. I’ll have the table cleared at once.” The man pulled out a clean rag and attacked the table’s surface.
Remy pulled out a chair, waiting for me to sit.
“Thank you.” It felt lovely to sit on a chair, not a horse, and I sighed as the kinks in my back released.
His Highness joined me at the table, and Grace, still held tightly in his arms, gave a small cry. Remy frowned and looked up at the innkeeper. “We need milk for the baby.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Right away. What else may I serve you?”
Remy waved off the promise of sustenance. “Let’s get the baby fed first.”
As hungry as I was, I couldn’t fault him. I could ignore the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. For now.
“Of course, Your Highness.” The innkeeper hurried away.
“Your Highness?” I stared at the man across the table.
“Surprise,” he deadpanned.
Around us, the other patrons resumed talking, but I still felt their awestruck gazes. It wasn’t every day that royalty visited. “You’re Queen Isabella’s son?”
“Guilty.”
“You’re different,” I said, watching as he brushed gentle fingers against Grace’s delicate cheek.
He glanced up from the baby. “Different how?”
“You know exactly how.” I gestured between us. “A few days ago, you could barely stand the sight of me.”
“That’s not—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, fair point. I was awful.”
I didn’t argue.
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze found mine, and his jaw tightened. “I’ve been an ass.”
“Why?”
“I was wrong about you. I owe you an apology.”
I blinked. “An apology?”
“I assumed the worst about you. I’m sorry for assuming and for the way I treated you.”
I studied his face, searching for signs of the old Remy—the sneer, the condescension. But his expression held only genuine regret. Either he was an exceptional actor, or something fundamental had shifted in him. “When did this happen?” I asked quietly.
“What?”
“When did you stop seeing me as the enemy?”
He met my eyes. “I had time to think as we rode here. You saved us from the nians. Grace is alive because of you.”
Grace gave another small cry.
“May I hold her?” I asked.
With a reluctant nod, he settled her onto my lap. Then he stretched his legs and smiled at the baby in my arms as if he approved of the view.
I pretended not to notice the warmth in his eyes.
I wasn’t sure I trusted it. Prince Remy was courteous to the gray-haired innkeeper, respectful to the patrons who’d given up their table, and concerned about Grace’s needs above his own comfort.
Where was the arrogant man who’d disliked me on sight?
Had he truly changed? Or was this new and improved Remy an act?
I stared into Grace’s sweet little face and dropped a kiss on her tiny nose. “Dinner is coming, little one.”
“Your baby is beautiful.” A woman with a face marked by time and laughter had approached our table.
“She is, but she’s not mine.”
The woman tilted her head. “With all due respect, miss, you don’t look like a wet nurse.” Then, perhaps realizing she was dangerously close to discussing breasts in front of the prince, she pressed her palm to her lips.
“We found her in Banvil.” My mention of the destroyed village wiped the contented expression from Remy’s face.
“Found her, miss?”
Remy gave a grim nod. “The village was destroyed. She’s the only survivor.”
The woman staggered, clasping the back of a nearby chair to stop her fall. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I have a cousin in Banvil.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Remy sounded as if he meant it.
“What happened?” The woman’s voice quavered.
We had the attention of every person in the taproom.
“We found nothing but burned buildings and bodies.” His gaze took in the entire taproom. “We don’t know who committed this terrible atrocity. But we will find them. Justice will be served.” He nodded at me. “Haven found Grace.”
“Grace?” the woman asked.
My gaze fell to Grace’s sweet face. “We named her. Well”—I cut my eyes at Remy—“the prince named her.”
“We need to find a home for her. She carries the blessings of the crown. I will reward the couple who takes her in and cares for her as their own.”
And cares for her as their own.
Remy wanted a family for Grace. I gave him an approving nod. Not that he cared a jot about my approval. Whether he cared or not, he had it.
The woman wiped a tear from her cheek. “Poor mite.”
My heart ached for Grace. She’d been through so much already. She deserved a family who loved her.
Obviously, Remy thought so too.
“My son and his wife can’t have children …” The woman’s voice trailed off as she looked into Grace’s cornflower-blue eyes.
Grace blew bubbles.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman.
“Rhys, miss. Rhys Beaton.”
“We’d like to meet your son, Mrs. Beaton.” Remy’s voice was polite, unexpectedly so.
I lifted my brows, and he smirked at me.
The godsdamned smirk. But this time when I saw it, I didn’t want to slap the expression clean off his face.