The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla
“Your men?” She peeked back at him, assessing his clothing, trying to determine his rank. He spoke with words that would indicate he had soldiers serving under him. But then, her grasp of the Illyrian language was tentative at best. Surely she’d misunderstood. His dress was no different than a common woodsman’s, not even that of a soldier.
But the man she’d tried to save had been similarly dressed, and they’d told her he was a soldier—and an important one. They’d wanted him to live so they could use him as a tool for bargaining.
She had studied his face in the firelight as she’d prayed for God’s mercy on his life and wondered then what made the man so important that they’d threaten her, a life for a life. If she failed to save him, they’d promised to kill her. When she learned the fire had killed him, she’d half expected to die then, but it hadn’t been her fault, so they’d let her live.
Besides, with her knowledge of healing, she was useful to her grandfather, even if he purposely gave her the hardest, most demeaning jobs at the fortress as she worked to pay off the infinite debt her father owed him.
Fingers brushed her hand again. She froze and pinched her eyes more tightly shut.
He cupped his hand over hers and drew her arm toward him, settling her fingers over the scar. “Do you recognize your handiwork?”
She opened her eyes cautiously, looked at the scar, blinked and inspected it more closely.
He’d been cut from just above his navel to his ribs, saved only by the thick wall of muscle that had kept his organs from being spilled. The scar followed the exact line, etched with feathered strokes marking each neat stitch.
Yes, she recognized her handiwork. She’d prayed over each stitch, over each carefully chosen herb she’d pressed to the wound to ward away infection and speed his healing.
The man had survived.
Did the Illyrians know? Did her grandfather know? Either they truly believed the man had died, or they’d lied to her about his death. But why lie?
No, they must not have realized he’d escaped before the hut burned.
She pulled her hand away from the scar, though he still held her fingers in his. For the first time she examined his face in the full light of day. How could she ever have thought that any other man looked like this man? His clean-shaven jawline was strong with a slight cleft in the middle in his chin. His nose was straight, his brow line high, intelligent, his complexion healthy, cheeks slightly flushed. And his lips...
No, she’d best not look too long at his lips.
The concern on his face slowly spread to a smile. “You recognize me?”
“Yes.” Cautious joy rose inside her as she spoke.
“I owe you for my life. Tell me, how can I repay you?”
Evelyn thought quickly, her happiness at finding him alive tempered by fear for his continued safety. Her grandfather, King Garren, had wanted this man alive so he could barter his life for political gain. He thought the man was dead. If the king learned that the man had lived, he’d only try to capture him again to keep him prisoner or, worse yet, to exact his vengeance for the lands Illyria had lost to the kingdom of Lydia.
She couldn’t let that happen. And yet, this close to the fortress of Fier, he could easily be spotted, recognized and reported to her grandfather. Her mind made up, she met his eyes as she made her request. She’d lost him once before, and it had grieved her in ways she still didn’t understand. She couldn’t risk harm coming to him again.
“You must leave this area immediately and never return.”
Chapter Two
Luke stared at the woman, unable to understand. Perhaps his grasp of the Illyrian language wasn’t all he thought it to be, or maybe the woman hadn’t realized what she was saying. But he still had hold of her hand. “Leave?”
“When you were wounded, they wanted you alive for bargaining. King Garren thinks you’re dead. If he learns otherwise, he’ll capture you again.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.
“But there’s a peace accord—”
“A highly resented peace accord.” The woman pulled her hand free of his. “Which King Garren would get out of if he could. He wants these borderlands back—he speaks of little else. If he had a hostage of rank, he could bargain again. I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re important to them—”
“You don’t know who I am?” Luke felt a ripple of surprise. Surely the woman had only attended to his injuries out of deference to his position. His brother had said as much—his wound was a mortal one; any healer worth anything wouldn’t have wasted time on one past saving. This woman had stood in the gap between life and death and fought for him tirelessly. Why would she do that if she didn’t know who he was?
“I don’t,” she repeated, then kept on with her insistence. “But if the king thinks he can use you to regain some of what he’s lost, they’ll take you prisoner—”
“How do you know this?”
“King Garren is in residence at the fortress of Fier.”
So, despite more comfortable holdings farther inland, Garren chose to reside near the Lydian border. Why? Garren had tried to trick the Lydians before. Luke wouldn’t put it past the man to try something again. Especially if what the woman said was true. “He resents the peace accords?”
“He lost a great deal of land and some degree of standing—”
“But he’s gained peace. Isn’t that worth the sacrifice of some bear-infested woods?” He looked back at the furry carcass, which lay still in the sunlight. The woods were dangerous and unproductive, save for berries, roots and lumber. The hunting was fair, but few ventured this deep into the forest to hunt when fine stags could be gotten much closer to the villages. Lumber grew there in abundance, more than either kingdom needed. What use could King Garren possibly have for the land?
“I—” The woman stopped, her lips pursed, open slightly, lovely as any flower in bloom. “I think peace is worth sacrifice, but King Garren is a greedy and prideful man.”
Luke wished he still had hold of the lovely woman’s hand. She valued peace? Of course she did; women often did. But to speak openly against the Illyrian king, and to a stranger...she must be a woman of courage. But then, any woman who’d venture into these treacherous woods had to be brave. Or desperate.
She looked up. “The sun grows higher in the sky. I must be getting back.” She stepped away from him.
He stepped after her. “I will accompany you.”
“No.”
“There are dangerous bears—”
“Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Flee from this place if you value your freedom, and do not return.” She continued past him, ducking through the brambles toward the path.
Luke bent low to follow her. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
“It doesn’t matter. You shan’t ever see me again.”
“But I must. I owe you for my life.” He reached for her hand, but she was too quick for him. Already she’d navigated the brambles and reached the path, scurrying away.
“You asked me to make a request, and I have. If you value your life, you’ll leave these woods at once.” She broke into a full run, darting under branches, vaulting fallen logs, her basket swinging in one hand as she held her patched skirt with the other.
Luke hesitated. She seemed distressed by the late hour. If she was a slave, she might be punished for returning late to her work. He would do her no service by detaining her further.
He needed to ponder his next move.