The dark-haired princess had started gasping for air upon being released from the violence that her suitor inflicted. Her chest strained and an unfamiliar metallic feeling filled her throat. He had thrown her so hard she was coughing up blood, so the handkerchief was a welcome gesture. As for the stranger who offered it to her, she could not be so sure. What did he mean when he said he had been assigned to protect her? Who wanted her protected, and what was she being protected from?

She had coaxed herself into a state of idle numbness, still feeling woozy from the blows she had just taken. Her head felt like it might explode at any moment, blood slowly oozing out of a cut on the side of her face. She felt like she deserved to be overwhelmed, to be frantic, but that would require her to feel something. She had sworn that off the second her head had hit the marble flooring. The only thing she could do correctly in that moment was gaze into the man’s eyes. He was saying something, but she couldn’t comprehend it. Was he speaking French? Italian? English? Spanish? She wasn’t even sure that she would recognize it in her right mind, all she knew was that his words were sincere. His voice had a rich tone she wished more men possessed, and the expression on his face showed a level of care words could not express. She had never seen a man look at her with that much sentiment before, other than perhaps Jacques.

There was something about this man that was extremely enticing. It was the way he respected her space, the way he cared without overwhelming her. He left so much space between the two of them that she felt a strong desire to bring herself nearer to him. She wasn’t sure how she would have reacted to that if she was thinking clearly, whether she would be more impulsive in her urges to be near this handsome protector or whether she would have the self-control and the rationality to deny her feelings, no matter how strong they may be. Her amber eyes were softer than normal, much less fiery. They were a brilliant shade that seemed to be momentarily wasted on a doe-like quality that resembled fearfulness.

“Who are you?” Her words were remarkably calm and inquisitive, spoken in the most confident butchering of the Italian language she could muster. She only spoke fluent French, and despite years of lessons, her language skills remained shabby at best in anything else. In her irrational fantasies, she married a handsome foreign man who did not know French. She would fall in love with him wordlessly, and he would show his love for her by learning the French language. Sometimes she dreamt she would teach him herself, and other times, he would consult Jacques or another member of the court, surprising her with his new knowledge after he gained proficiency. Yet, she remained in Italy with a man who would never so much as hold a door for her, and she recognized that, no matter how hard it could be to swallow.

She glanced at the blood that had accumulated on the white flooring, then touched her hand to her head, wincing and jerking it away at once. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw the blood that had been transferred to her fingers, confirming her suspicion that her blood was on the floor. She didn’t know why, but in fear, her eyes immediately found his again, unable to leave. The sense that fate had brought the two of them together was unshakable in Camille’s mind, no matter how irrational or romanticized or over-idealized the notion may have been. She wondered if this was an aftereffect of the trauma she had endured, if hitting her head had made her more susceptible to the charms of desirable men. Either way, she prayed her calmness throughout the entire situation had impressed him. She knew that most women would have entered well into hysterics by this point.

“Promise me something,” she lowered her voice, leaning closer to Tobias. She didn’t dare glance down at his lips, fearful of what may happen. Thinking about that seemed to flip a switch in her, as if she then remembered how selfish and impulsive men were. They had a long history of treating her like an object, having their way with her and leaving zero room for discussion. What would make this man any different? Still, her face lingered close to his, the trepidation of someone finding out about what had happened overriding the fear she felt of what this man might do to her. “Promise me you will not tell a soul about what happened tonight. Tell them I fell down the stairs. If I do not have a purpose here in courting Lord Laurens, I will be sent back to France.” Now, her eyes had turned completely full of fear, on the brink of tears. One or two fell down her face, though she attempted to will herself to stop. “I cannot go back to France,” she pleaded again, “I beg you."

In this moment, Camille’s eyes shot away from the man’s, focused on the clicking of a man’s footsteps coming down the corridor. She spotted Jacques just as he had broken into a sprint, running as fast as he could towards his sister. He looked at Tobias with malice before Camille started pleading with Jacques, tugging on his arm and explaining in their native tongue that he had saved her and was not a threat. She begged Jacques not to hurt him. He obliged, sitting down with his back against the wall, cradling his sister’s upper half in his arms. He tried to calm her down as she stared at the wall, her gaze getting glassier and more distant. She appeared minutes away from blacking out, though Jacques hadn’t noticed. He watched Tobias with a suspicious gaze, respecting what his sister had explained but unsure of whether to believe it or not. “I don’t think you did this,” he explained, still gently rocking his sister in his arms. He had switched back to Italian as if he didn’t speak French. “I know exactly who did. My first question is who are you, and how did you find her back here? My second question is how are you going to help me make Laurens pay for hurting her without bringing the royal court into the matter? If my sister is sent back to France, not only am I killing him, but I’m killing you too.”

Tobias blinked slowly at the blatant threat. Part of him was still hung up on what had just happened...what had happened, anyway? Her Italian was far from fluent, but it was passable enough for him to have understood what she had been trying to tell him. The fact that she wanted him to keep this a secret, to hide what had happened and protect Lord Laurens’ reputation even at the expense of her own….he couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t want the greasy bastard exposed and dealt with properly. Even if the termination of their courtship would mean her return to France, were things really that bad for her in her homeland? For he knew without a doubt that this was not the request of a petulant young woman reluctant to return to the boredom and structure of home. There had been genuine, undiluted fear in her eyes at the prospect. What could have happened to cause such a reaction?

Then there was the matter of how she had looked at him before her strange plea. Before her eyes had grown so terrified, they had been filled with a mixture of wariness, confusion, and….something almost resembling….need? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But there had been an almost mesmerizing quality to them when she had held his gaze, a magnetism that caused him to almost regret his decision to stay away and keep a significant, respectful distance. He was professional and polite. He always had been. But for a split second before he’d remembered himself, he’d felt something stir as he gazed into those extraordinary amber eyes. The way they were both bright and soft at the same time as she gazed at him, the way they captivated his gaze and made him feel like someone very different from the respectable man he’d molded himself into over the years. Someone who didn’t pretend that he felt nothing but professional courtesy and respect for her, someone who was curious about what may have happened had her brother not arrived, someone who noticed the way she had so carefully avoided looking anywhere but at his eyes-

With a mental jolt he snapped himself out of that train of thought and slammed the lid shut on it. Enough of that. This was a serious situation; he knew better than to get distracted like that. Bowing respectfully to both the young Prince and his sister, Tobias said, “My name is Tobias di Rossi. I am the King’s Hand and was assigned to protect your Highnesses.”

He made sure to explain in French, as she was clearly more comfortable with it than his native tongue. He was by no means a master of the language, but his occupation had demanded he learn enough to be relatively fluent, as they often received emissaries and visitors who spoke in the foreign dialect. “I saw your sister leave the party with Lord Laurens, and I made the mistake of believing her safe in his company. After some time I began to suspect something was amiss, and I followed the path they had likely taken. Then I arrived to find him beating her relentlessly before I intervened. I am deeply sorry for what happened, and I swear to you on my honour that nothing like this will happen again.”

Then he fell silent as he pondered the Prince’s second question. “I am in full agreement that the Lord must be brought to justice. But the matter of not involving the court...that complicates things. Especially because Lord Laurens is such a respected member.”

His gaze moved from the Prince to his sister, and concern filled their dark depths. “With respect, Your Highness….we need to get her help. There is a healer here at the Palazzo who will see to her injuries and not breathe a word. I trust her with my life. May I assist you in moving Her Highness to Iseppa’s workroom?”

He stepped forward and stooped slightly, arms partially extended in an offer to carry the Princess as he waited for the Prince’s permission.

Even in a compromised state, Camille released a hefty sigh of annoyance at her brother. He could be so stupid, so reckless, so impulsive. Of course he’s affiliated with the royal court, you idiot. You absolute imbecile. She had half a mind to say it, but her glare seemed to have done the job for her. Jacques pinched the bridge of his nose, a self-satisfied grin still adorning his face. He was too smug for Camille’s taste, so she punched his arm in a gesture of annoyance. “Impulsive bastard,” she mumbled the insult, but it wouldn’t have taken knowledge of the French language to understand the message she was trying to get across. “Not to mention smug… and stupid.” She withdrew the arm that was slung around Jacques’ neck and crossed her arms, a certain level of fire radiating off of her that more adequately reflected the color and vibrance of her eyes. If she thought she would be able to stand without vomiting from the dizziness that resulted from hitting her head, she would have been out of his arms in an instant.

“You swear nothing like this is going to happen again? What will you do, threaten to take away his liquor? Empty the brothels?” Camille punched him again, still glaring. She would have added a string of insults, but seeing as they hadn’t seemed to change his behavior, she just remained seething. Jacques refusing to be on his best behavior wasn’t an excuse to let hers slip. She knew the rules.

“Excuse my brother,” she finally said after he’d rambled on for a few moments. “He forgets his place.”

“My place?!” Jacques was now seething too, glancing down with frustration and even hurt at his sister’s weak form in his arms. “Camille, look at you! Look at her,” he glanced back up to Tobias, who was standing over them. “If she had been left with him any longer she might be dead. God knows what he was actually planning on doing to her. Throwing punches in a hallway isn’t typically Plan A, is it?” He sighed, softening slightly and caressing the side of her face. She seemed to reduce her annoyance as his gentler side came out.

“Thank you, Tobias, for rescuing me,” Camille stated simply. She scrambled out of Jacques arms with a tentative nature that loudly announced her hurting. She stood face to face with her protector now, her bright eyes shining. “I don’t believe a healer will be necessary at this time. If you will just extend my apologies to the court for retiring early, I would appreciate your assistance. And,” she hesitated on this last part, the fear briefly returning to her eyes, “if you could send a guard to keep watch outside my door this evening?” Her demeanor returned to the calm, soothing way it had been before her brother showed up. She looked into his eyes briefly before pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm and he smelled distinctly pleasant, faintly of chamomile and something else she could not place. Without so much as a word more, she wobbled down the hallway towards her room, leaving the men alone.

“She’s a force of nature,” Jacques muttered to Tobias. “Can’t be told anything, can’t be conformed.” He stood up slowly, dusting himself off and walking off after her. He called over his shoulder, “don’t bother putting security outside her door, I’ll see to her safety myself.”

...

The evening came and went, eventually replaced with an ominous feeling nightfall had brought with it. The palazzo felt lonely, eerily so. All of the guests had retired to their quarters by two or three in the morning, and at first light, the halls were completely bare. As the gardens filled with morning dew and the sky revealed its first rays of sunlight, Jacques was already quite awake, pacing the room nervously. After some internal debate, he exited the room, only to find Tobias himself keeping watch outside the door. He looked tired, but Jacques was almost relieved to see he had taken Camille's request to heart rather than being immediately offended his order hadn't been obeyed. He was exactly the person the prince wanted to see in that moment.

"Tobias," he muttered in a harsh whisper, "Tobias." Once he had gotten the man's attention with his words, he was sure that the fear in his eyes finished his statements for him. "I need your healer. Camille won't wake up, I've been trying to get her to wake for almost an hour."

He waited by the door as she bustled about, collecting herbs and medicines and bandages and other assorted things and packing it all into a few baskets. It only took a few minutes, yet she had to remind him to “stop fidgeting and stand still; you’re flightier than a spring rabbit and you’re making it hard to think.”
Finally she was ready, and the two of them made their way back through the palazzo to Camille and Jacques’ quarters. He hesitated out of habit, but Iseppa did not even bother to knock before striding through with that authoritative gait she had. She headed straight to the bedchamber and instructed him to set the supplies down near the wall, then told them to be quiet and let her work before shutting the door in his face. Tobias stepped back, mildly surprised. Then he turned to look at Jacques. “Iseppa is our best healer. Your sister is in good hands.”
He hoped his words would reassure the young man; he had been very quiet throughout the encounter.