To Save His Prince

By Hurri Cosmo

Emory is a humble kitchen servant intent on working hard so he can continue to earn his daily crust of bread. It is a thankless, back-breaking job, but it is exactly where Emory wants to be. In the magnificent West Quay castle. Because that is where the incredibly handsome, extremely talented Crown Prince Riffyn lives. The beautiful, kind, and attentive man stole Emory’s heart years before when he rescued him and his mother from a band of thieves. Now Emory’s only wish is to be close, so he can simply admire and serve the man.
But a great evil walks the halls of the castle, and Emory stumbles on a heinous plot to not only kill the prince but a possible plan to overthrow the Kingdom. A wicked scheme that includes the use of magic. Of course, being a lowly servant, no one believes Emory when he tries to raise the alarm, including the prince, who has been commanded to choose a bride now, or one will be chosen for him. Even as Emory’s heart breaks for his prince, he has to find a way to save him. But how, when no one, not even the king, the prince’s own father, can be trusted?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hurri Cosmo
• Release date: Sep 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463957554

Hurri Cosmo

Hurri Cosmo lives in Minnesota where she holds tight to the idea that there, where it’s cold a good part of the year, she won’t age as fast. Yep, she avoids the truth as much as she avoids mirrors. But one of the reasons she loves writing is reality doesn’t always offer up a “happily ever after” and being able to take control of that is a powerful lure. Being a happy ending junkie, writing just makes them easier to find. Oh, she doesn’t mind “real life” and she does try to at least keep it in mind when she writes her stories, but she truly loves creating a wonderful couple, knowing they will fall in love and have their HEA. Every - single - time. And, of course, that is exactly the reason she loves reading this genre, too. Give her a glass of red wine, some dark chocolate, and her computer, whether she is reading or writing, and she will entertain herself for hours. The fact she actually gets paid to do it is Snickers bars on the frosting on the cake.

Book preview

Prologue

They knocked the basket out of Emory’s mother’s hands and the contents rolled in the dirt. The bread had been wrapped in a thin cloth and was protected, and the vegetables could be washed, but it was humiliating there was little to nothing Emory could do to stop what was happening. Three of the ruffians circled him and his mother, two holding short blades but all large and intimidating.

Emory hated his thin body. He labored hard, working their small farm, tending to the livestock, and keeping starvation at bay, but even at the age of fifteen, he had not developed the muscles young men usually had while doing the very same things. Still, he had to at least make sure this encounter with these thieves went no farther.

Leave us alone! We’ve done you no wrong!

Emory! his mother whispered harshly. Hush, boy. She tried to push him behind her, which was even more embarrassing.

"That’s right, Emory, one of the ruffians taunted. Hide behind ye mama’s petticoat befores we cuts you up and feeds you to the bog rats."

Yeah, sonny. Theys mighty hungry this time of year, jeered another. Then the vile man’s attention went back to his mother. ’Course, we have a different activity planned for mama.

They all laughed as the circle they’d formed became smaller and smaller around them, all three of them staring like starving animals at his mother. She gripped Emory’s wrist even as he tried to raise his arm to shield her. No, Emory! Please do nothing foolish!

Mother! Stop! He stepped out beside her. I need to protect you. I can fight them.

But she was crying and the tears distracted him for a crucial moment, his heart wrenching. It was why the hit to his left side was unexpected. It was so hard Emory found himself facedown in the same dirt as the radishes. Even as kicks rained down on him, he could hear his mother’s screams and the tearing of fabric.

Mother! No! Leave my mother alone! He could do nothing more than cover his own head. He was going to be no help at all to his mother. What should he do?

"Unhand her, you scum!"

Only in that moment was Emory aware there had been hoof beats thundering the ground. He just hadn’t realized it would herald a hero coming to rescue his mother and him. Thankfully noting the man mercilessly kicking him was no longer interested in him, Emory rolled and gained his feet. It was then Emory was able to gaze up at the magnificent man who had just arrived. Dressed in chain mail and a royal blue cloak, he slipped from his incredible steed with agility and grace, drawing his sword in a motion so fluid it was like a dance.

Who da hell are you? one of the three snarled. Those same ruffians now surrounded the beautiful man who was clearly a noble. What someone like that was doing here in Wybrook, Emory had no idea. But he was thrilled the man had stopped the attack on his mother. Emory ran to her where she sat on the ground trying to cover herself. The top of her dress had been nearly torn from her, so Emory quickly took his own tunic off and slipped it over his mother’s head.

He helped her to her feet. Are you okay?

Yes, she stammered. Are you?

Of course, he scoffed, disgusted that he had needed help to keep his mother safe. A fight was going on behind him, and he turned to see if he could at least do something. But his mother pulled on his arm to keep him next to her.

Please, Emory. You’re hurt enough.

Hurt? He glanced down at his naked chest and the beginnings of bruises, a few cuts, and abrasions, but that was it. I’m fine, Mother.

She held fiercely onto him, which was fine. The nobleman was having no trouble all by himself. The man seemed to be toying with the ruffians. The two with short blades jabbed at him menacingly, but he avoided them with apparent ease. The one without a blade was laid out flat, his attempts to attack the man obviously failing miserably. The blue-cloaked nobleman was as remarkable with a sword as he was to gaze upon.

Who is he? his mother whispered.

I have no idea, Mother. But he’s amazing.

Suddenly, as if the man had tired of his inept opponents, he knocked the short blade out of one of the ruffian’s hands with a twist of his sword, and using another swing, the other blade went flying. The would-be rapists screamed in protest but decided they, too, had had enough and ran off, dragging along their friend who had been on the ground.

Their hero sheathed his sword and turned to both Emory and his mother. Are you all right? He held out a hand to Emory’s mother, who took it, then bent low and kissed her hand.

Emory’s mother blushed. Oh yes, thanks to you, kind sir.

Just then two men, also clothed in chain mail and cloaked in blue, came thundering in. They were equally as large as the man who had saved them, but nowhere near as handsome.

Your Highness! What happened? The lead man unmounted even before his horse came to a full stop, his sword having been already drawn.

Only a small altercation. Three ruffians were abusing these fine folks, and I stopped them. Fear not. All is well. They ran off on foot—that way. He pointed into the woods where the three had escaped.

Do we go after them, Your Highness?

Absolutely. They attempted a foul deed and must be punished.

The man bowed his head quickly, mounted up, and both men took off in the direction the three ruffians had gone.

Their savior turned back to Emory and his mother. May I ask your names?

Your Highness? Emory knew his eyes were wide, and it was at that instant the beautiful man met his stare. There was a shock that ran through Emory’s body, and he knew right then he would never forget that moment. Emory… Emory Murran. My… my mother, Ekar Murran… my lord.

Emory and Ekar Murran. I am pleased to meet you. I am Prince Riffyn Van Corby of West Quay. He bowed, and Emory’s mother, her eyes wide as well, curtsied best she could. Emory simply stood there, not knowing what to do. Finally, his mother pulled on his arm and Emory bowed awkwardly.

Now, are you sure you are all right? May I escort you home? He shifted his gaze to Emory and narrowed his eyes as he took in the battle wounds Emory had collected. The prince reached out to touch a particular bruise and Emory flinched. Self-conscious of his bare skinny teenage chest, Emory swiftly bent to retrieve the scattered vegetables and the wrapped bread. He hurriedly stuck them back in his mother’s basket but pulled it away from her as she reached out to take it from him. The basket would hide at least some of his half-nakedness.

No, Mother, I can carry it, he muttered.

Seeming to understand Emory’s embarrassment, the prince winked at him. You are a good son.

Thank you, Your Highness. His face heated up as he shifted his gaze downward. He was attempting respect, to not gape directly into the prince’s beautiful blue eyes, but now he was staring at the prince’s well-developed body and wished he, too, could have muscles like that. But something else entered his brain at that moment as well.

He was wondering about the warm, gorgeous flesh the chain mail covered. He wanted desperately to touch the naked chest underneath, be crushed to it by those strong arms.

It wasn’t a shock. He’d had such thoughts about the male body before. While all his friends were talking about girls, Emory had realized he had no interest in them. But he’d found himself ogling the blacksmith’s son once while he worked, swinging his hammer in the summer heat. Emory stared as he removed his shirt that day, wiped the sweat from his face with it, and tossed it aside. Emory was mesmerized by the sight of the man’s shiny physique, wishing he could be closer, actually see more of his body. Even smell him. Luckily, the man had not caught him gawking.

However, this was the first time he was compelled to act on his thoughts. To actually touch.

He knew his face was as red as it could be because his skin was on fire.

Then came a hand under his chin, lifting his gaze.

There is no shame in needing help with those three, the prince expressed gently. You were unarmed, and I am well-trained with a sword.

Emory nodded as best he could with the prince’s hand still holding his chin. Oh my, yes, you are. And…and thank you, Your Highness, he whispered.

The prince smiled. No need to thank me. His deep voice caused Emory’s very core to shiver. I am sworn to protect my citizens. And do not fear those men. My knights will find them, and they will pay for what they attempted here today. They will not bother you again. I will make sure of it.

Emory couldn’t help but gaze into the prince’s beautiful blue eyes with immense gratitude. I have no doubt. You are magnificent. Realizing what he had said, he quickly added, "With… with that sword."

The prince laughed. Thank you. Like I said, I am well-trained. He stepped back and gave Emory a once-over. You are young. You could learn. If you ever come to the castle, let me know. I can see that you are taught.

The castle? Me?

Of course, Emory Murran. I invite you personally. He gave a slight bow and gazed intently at Emory. Except there was something about the prince’s contemplation that made Emory tremble, even breathless.

But then people arrived, crowding in on the prince, and soon he was swallowed up in the mass. Emory and his mother, after explaining a dozen times what had happened, made their way home.

But Emory never forgot the invitation to come to the castle.

Chapter One

Seven years later

It was cold.

Very cold. To the point Emory could see his breath. He was also beginning to shiver uncontrollably while sitting against the stone wall of the castle. At least the wind wasn’t as bad in this corner. It was hard to get comfortable, though, on the frozen ground. Too bad he had been thrown out prior to grabbing a coat or even his shoes. He had taken his shoes off and put them near the fire to dry and damn if he hadn’t drifted off to sleep. The fire had been so warm and the kitchen so quiet at that moment.

It had been chaos all day. Well—for two days and nights, actually. And being a servant to even the servants, there had been no sleep for Emory. The arrival of King Ateral from the Kingdom of Rivenslade along with his entire entourage, had been a much-anticipated event. The massive feast that had to be prepared and then served had occupied every moment of Emory’s existence those two days and nights. Polishing the silver, peeling the potatoes, preparing vegetables and scrubbing the dining hall from top to bottom, there had been no time for anything else. As soon as he would finish one project, it was off to another. But he didn’t care. There was finally going to be more than just stale bread and a cup of beans to eat at the end of this day. All the servants were near giddy about it. Clearing the plates from the gigantic table in the dining hall was a privilege and usually saved for the most experienced of the servants, but with as many people as there had been tonight, every servant was going to be employed. And the glorious food that the royals had been known to leave on their plates? Well, it was going to be heaven!

Rich venison and wild boar, vegetables and fruits Emory had only sampled when no one was looking, and cheeses he had never before seen, much less tasted, had been in great supply tonight. The sights and smells were nearly too much. He was in such anticipation of the feast ending and being given the opportunity to have his fill for the first time since arriving at the castle, he could hardly stop smiling.

However, he should have known better than to be so damn happy. When he had been offered a small glass of ale by Duncan, one of the other servants, he should have declined. He should have realized he was being set up. His euphoria about the night had been his downfall. Not that the liquor had affected him. It had only been a small amount. But on an empty stomach, he understood now the ale had relaxed him, and having had no sleep in well over forty-eight hours, sitting down for even that minute after laying his shoes near the fire had done him in.

And damn! He knew he had lost his shoes now, along with his only other pair of trousers and tunic, too, he supposed. It was not beyond Duncan to steal all of them and claim they were his from the beginning. The man had been accused of doing it before, which was another reason Emory should never have trusted him. The hell of it was, it hadn’t been his fault someone had spilled some of the amazing smelling stew on the floor and Merrill, the kitchen master, had slipped on it and fell. And even though there were others in the kitchen, snickering behind their hands at the sight of the master flat on his ample ass, not surprisingly, Emory had been the one he focused on. Standing next to the cleaning bucket that he had used earlier that day made it all too easy for the master. Emory had meant to empty the bucket, but there hadn’t been time, and as luck or fate or fucking providence would have it, that oversight turned out to be a huge mistake. After Merrill climbed back to his feet, no easy accomplishment for one so fat, and screamed to all present that Emory had no idea how to do anything correctly, he dumped that very full bucket of filthy, cold water on Emory, soaking him from head to toe.

Emory was forced to quickly clean up the mess, then wash and change into his only other clothes.

But he had no other shoes.

So, he spent the rest of the evening running around in the sodden leather, his feet becoming sore and chapped. Then that tiny moment came where he was the only one in the kitchen. It was quiet for the first time in days. He stupidly chose to take that moment to slip the pretty much ruined shoes off and warm them and his feet by the fire. If he could dry the shoes, even slightly, he would be better prepared for when they would need to clear the dining hall.

He remembered his stomach growling and his heart thrilling at the prospect of soon being able to eat like a king.

He shouldn’t have allowed the temptation to get the best of him. If he had remained on his feet, he would never have fallen asleep. Maybe it would not have saved him. It could be that Merrill would have still taken great offense to Emory standing still and not slaving over something. But in his defense, he had been so tired.

Merrill stormed in, caught him dozing, and with the help of two other servants, threw Emory out of the castle, forbidding him to reenter before morning.

No shoes, no coat. He didn’t even ask for them. He knew the moment he had been man-handled out the door, his shoes and clothes would have been confiscated anyway because of the greedy grin on Duncan’s face as he stood off to the side of the fireplace. Not that Duncan would lower himself to actually wear Emory’s clothes. Most likely he would sell them to the highest bidder.

Emory had been an idiot to fall for it. Now he had no idea what he would do for shoes going forward.

And that was only if he survived the night.

Because, even though it was supposed to be spring, it was damn cold.

He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around himself as far as they would go, but as thin as his arms were, they offered no warmth. Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, there was a noise and the blade of a sword filled his field of vision.

He jerked his head up quickly, and there stood the beautiful Prince Riffyn, holding his sword so the tip nearly touched Emory’s chin. Several of his knights were standing behind him, swords also drawn, their expressions very angry.

What are you doing here? the prince demanded.

Emory knew better than to move, but he scrambled to stand anyway. Before he could actually make it to his feet, he was slammed against the wall and the razor-sharp blade was held very close to his throat, the prince’s other strong arm across Emory’s chest.

I asked a question, boy. What are you doing here? His voice was low and deadly. Emory should’ve been thinking of how to save his life and not that the prince’s face was right there, his warm sweet breath washing over Emory. He realized he should have more self-preservation in mind than admiring the way the prince’s eyelashes outlined his beautiful eyes. But this was the closest he had ever been to the man he’d fantasized about for years. It was clear the prince did not remember him. But Emory had been a fifteen-year-old child back then. He had changed. He knew that. He only wished he could say he had gained muscle. That just wasn’t the case.

However, the prince’s next words were able to snap him to vivid attention. Are you thinking to sneak into the castle and steal something?

Steal? Emory? Oh no! No! Please…I—I swear I-I belong… Wait. He couldn’t tell this amazing man he had been thrown out of the castle for not finishing his chores. What would the crown prince think of such a worthless servant? It might be he would have him flogged and thrown into prison, but before all of that, and even more important, it would disappoint the prince.

Emory had long admired Crown Prince Riffyn. Ever since coming to the castle, almost a year ago now, he had watched the prince whenever he could—while he trained, while he chatted with visitors to the castle and other servants during official events, even while he slept those few times Emory had been privileged enough to carry the prince’s breakfast tray to his chambers. There was a strong competition for that duty too. It seemed all of the kitchen servants revered the prince.

The women thought it possible he could love them, even marry them. But, of course, it was not. Crown princes did not marry servant girls. And they certainly did not pay any attention to servant boys.

So, it was mostly from afar that Emory adored Prince Riffyn. Like catching glimpses of the man when the castle held tournaments. Prince Riffyn was usually the winner, something Emory understood King Ceray, Prince Riffyn’s father, demanded. And the prince delivered. Emory couldn’t help but be proud of his prince.

Emory also caught sight of the prince at balls where he shone like the sun. His formal wear, that royal blue color that matched his eyes, made the prince stand out from all others. His smile out blazed the brightest fire. Of course, he became the life of the night. Even tonight at the feast, when Emory carried heavy trays of food out to the long serving tables, the beautiful man was visible. Emory couldn’t help but smile as he tried hard not to stare. Except, every time the prince laughed or that low commanding voice boomed out, he would automatically turn to seek him out, if only to gaze at his perfection.

Even that time when he was conversing with one of the guests. She had been a small lovely woman, clearly one of the princesses from Rivenslade, dressed in a gown so shimmery, she appeared to be a fairy. A strong twinge of jealousy shot through him as the woman flirted shamelessly with the prince, touching his arm to pick off imaginary dust, bringing her hand to her own chest so that the prince would gaze at her abundance, trying to appear shy and charming. Emory hated her instantly but, at the same time, wished he were her.

Truth be told, that was the biggest reason he had accepted the glass of ale from Duncan. Liquor might be able to help him forget his crush. Because a servant’s opinion didn’t matter to a royal. Nor could a servant be a friend. Not to a prince.

At least, that was what he had believed.

Until Duncan shocked him beyond measure.

Duncan claimed to have been in the prince’s bed.

"In… his bed?"

"Yes, Emory, in his bed. Don’t tell me you don’t fantasize about it. I know you do. I see the way you look at him, all dreamy-eyed. Well, forget it. It’s me the prince calls in the middle of the night. Me he takes to his bed and does naughty things with. So, leave him alone. Or else."

Emory’s heart had twisted hard with the knowledge that, first, he was not the only one who thought such wicked thoughts, a man loving a man. Not that Duncan was anyone Emory had even given a second glance to. But the prince? Could he, too, have such imaginings?

Sure, Emory knew about the hushed rumor that there was a great king in some far-off kingdom, on the other side of vast Shadowmere bay, who had taken another man for his forever mate. He had to admit it had given him hope for himself.

But how could the prince choose Duncan?

Duncan!

Duncan was a sleazy, self-centered, condescending, irritating bully.

Damn.

So Emory downed that ale as if he had been drinking liquor all his life, and even for as bitter as it tasted, he wanted more. He even thought to himself he would watch for used tankards coming back from the hall that maybe had a bit left in them, deciding to concentrate on that instead of the possible abundance of food.

Now he had neither.

But lucky him, he finally did have the full attention of the prince.

"You belong? Where?"

"The… the castle. I swear it. I work in the kitchen…" His voice was barely a squeak, but in the quiet of the night, the prince heard.

The prince was silent for a moment, but then he gently released Emory, took his sword away, and sheathed it.

He glanced over his shoulder to tell his knights to also put away their weapons. He’s no threat. Riffyn’s attention returned to Emory. Name, he demanded.

Emory, Your Highness. Emory made sure to keep his gaze downcast, more on the prince’s strong chest.

There was another moment of very uncomfortable silence.

Reviews for To Save His Prince

[Rosinanta · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It was kind of stupid. You can guess beforehand that the plot wont be anything magnificent, but the characters were too shalow and plain. Just ugh.
Also, its called "The ice dragon tale". Spoiler allert: there isnt any dragon ?