The Homecoming Prince

Excerpt

The Homecoming Prince
Isabelle Adler © 2021
All Rights Reserved

“I’m glad to say you look slightly less awful today,” Stephan said.

His tone was teasing, but it masked a very real concern. Warren’s bout of illness had been so prolonged and so grave that for a while Stephan had feared the worst.

Those days had been nothing short of horrible. He’d known plenty of wretchedness and weathered plenty of dangers, but nothing could ever come close to the long hours spent by his lover’s sickbed, holding his hand, wiping the sweat off his brow, and hoping the next rattling breath wouldn’t be the last while Warren thrashed about with fever.

“Always such a sweet talker,” Warren said.

A weak smile played on his lips as he brought a cup of tea to his mouth. He sat up on the narrow bed, propped against a stack of pillows. The only room they could afford at the inn had a tiny fireplace, which gave off more smoke than heat. The feeble flames fought a losing battle against the mid-autumn chill seeping through the windows and walls. But Stephan had piled all the blankets he could find on the bed, and the tea was hot and strong, at least.

Stephan took his own cup, savoring the warmth that spread through his fingers.

“You should go downstairs to the common room and warm by the big fire,” Warren said, having undoubtedly noticed him shiver. The illness did nothing to lessen his usual perspicacity. “Maybe get something to eat too.”

Stephan shook his head. They were running too low on funds for him to luxuriate in more than one meal a day now, and they’d already eaten lunch. Besides, he wouldn’t leave Warren alone in a drafty, cramped room while he enjoyed himself downstairs. Had their roles been reversed (as they so often had been), Warren wouldn’t have moved from Stephan’s side even for a moment unless for some dire need.

“I don’t actually mind the winter,” Stephan said wistfully. “We’ve been traveling through hot-climate lands for so long, the nip in the air is refreshing. It reminds me of home.”

Warren raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Stephan was being truthful. He’d loved Segor; the short time spent living together in the port city of Varta, free to express their love for each other, had been the happiest in his life. But when they were forced to flee, pursued by his brother Robert’s assassins, things had begun to go awry. The South Isles, where they’d found a temporary refuge, had proved too much of an extreme environment for them to thrive in. When Warren had fallen sick, the local physician had advised he return to the familiar climate of the continent—which they had, despite the risk inherent in such a journey.

“I do miss Seveihar sometimes,” Stephan confessed, coming to perch on the edge of the bed with his cup of tea. Warren folded his long legs, making room for him. “Even the winters at the castle, with the winds whistling through window cracks, and those endless creaking staircases. I always knew the cold and the snow would abate eventually, and then it’d be spring again, and then summer. The summers were always so beautiful there, up in the mountains.”

“I remember.” Traces of hoarseness clung to Warren’s voice, but already he sounded so much more vital than before. “I remember how you loved to roam the woods around the castle. Until…”

“Until it became too dangerous for me to go out on my own,” Stephan said. “It still is.”

The old pain of realizing his own brother hated him enough to plot his assassination flared back into life. The worries and tribulations of the last few weeks had almost made him forget the true reason for his self-imposed exile, but he knew better now than to think it was all behind him. The events that had driven them from their safe little haven in Segor into the dangers of the unknown had demonstrated all too clearly that they couldn’t afford to let their guard down again.

Warren reached for Stephan’s hand, threading their fingers together, and they exchanged a brief, bitter smile. Some of Stephan’s anger and disappointment dissipated into their shared warmth, as they always did.

“I’m sorry,” Stephan said.

“For what?”

“I seem to always bring danger to our doorstep. Even when we move halfway across the world.”

“And if it weren’t for you, I’d never have seen anything of the world.”

“Don’t joke. You fell sick because of me. If I hadn’t been so careless in Varta, we wouldn’t have had to travel so far, putting so much strain on you. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Warren said. “And if I had a choice, I would have done it again. All of it. I would do anything just to be with you.”

Stephan shook his head, swallowing around the lump suddenly lodged in his throat.

“I love you,” he said, ignoring the treacherous crack in his voice. “So much.”

Warren’s hand on his tightened, and his eyes flashed in the low lighting, illuminated by the same surge of desire that washed over Stephan. That smoldering look made Stephan’s heart beat faster, filling him with the hope and relief for which he’d yearned for days.

He took the half-empty cup out of Warren’s hand and leaned down to brush his lips against his, tasting the strong flavor of steeped herbs.

It took some effort to pull back. He wanted nothing more than to sink further into Warren’s embrace, but the faint wheezing in Warren’s chest reminded him of the need for prudence.

“It’s late. I’ll go downstairs to fetch us some dinner,” Stephan said, rising from the bed. The desire to see Warren hale again outweighed the need to be frugal.

“I’m not that hungry. At least, not for food. Can’t you stay?”

“You need to eat to get your strength back,” Stephan said sternly. “If you can kiss, you can chew.”

Warren rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, settling back on the pillows. “Fine. Just please hurry back.”

*

The inn in which they were currently staying couldn’t exactly be called disreputable, but it came too close to it for Stephan’s liking. Its location near the docks and cheap prices meant the common room was always crowded and a bit too stifling, filled with loud voices and drunken laughter. But seeing as their coin was scarce, they couldn’t afford to be too snooty about accommodations.

Stephan made his way over to the counter, pointedly ignoring the leering looks and dirty comments his appearance never failed to garner from the sailors drinking away their shore leave. He wore nothing more provocative than a linen tunic and loose matching pants in the Segorian style he’d come to favor, but his delicate features and long hair, held up in a loose bun, tipped the scale toward femininity—which perhaps wasn’t the best choice under the circumstances.

They would have to move soon, Stephan contemplated as he handed the server an empty tea pot and waited for his order of fish chowder. Preferably somewhere with fewer people jostling about.

“Here you are, love,” the server said, setting his tray on the counter in front of him.

The chowder looked a bit watery, but the half loaf of bread that came with it was fresh and steaming, as was the replenished pot of tea.

Stephan thanked her and picked up the tray. As he turned, his gaze met that of a man, dressed in heavy, northern-style riding leathers. A narrow white scar ran from the hairline of his temple down his cheek, skirting his left eye and giving it a droopy appearance. The man, who appeared to be about thirty, leaned casually against the counter, nursing a tankard of ale just like any other patron, but Stephan caught a glimpse of a scabbard hanging on his hip under his woolen cloak. When he noticed Stephan studying him, the stranger averted his eyes, focusing his attention on the general din of the room, but it was a fraction too late.

Stephan’s heartbeat quickened. Unless his imagination was running away with him, the stranger’s regard had been anything but frivolous.

He ducked his head and climbed the stairs to their room, struggling to balance the dishes in his hurry. He slammed the door shut with the heel of his foot and set the tray on the side table.

“Warren, listen—” he began, but a loud knock on the door interrupted him.

His eyes must have gone wide because Warren sat up, his content expression transforming into alarm.

The knock came again, even more insistent this time. Stephan stepped back and grabbed a butter knife off the tray, placing himself between the door and the bed.

“Who is it?” he called, hoping his voice sounded steadier than his nerves. Behind him, Warren shuffled on the bed, throwing off the covers.

“Lady Lasia?” a muffled voice answered. “Please, I need to speak to you.”

Stephan’s breath hitched, and he glanced backward at Warren. His lover’s face mirrored his own confusion. Who would know to call him by the sobriquet he’d used during his sojourn in Esnia all those months ago?

“Don’t open,” Warren whispered. He lowered his feet to the floor, holding on to the bedpost. His shirt hung loose on his too-thin frame in a way that made Stephan’s heart momentarily clench.

“Please,” the voice repeated from outside. “I mean no harm. This is about your sister.”

“Nessa?” This time, Stephan didn’t bother hiding his surprise. Acting on an impulse, he lowered his useless weapon and stepped to the door.