The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla

bear.

      Full grown, claws raised, half a charge away and angry.

      Luke froze. Once the animal realized they meant no harm, it should lumber off to its den and leave them alone. It stared at the woman, seemingly unaware that Luke had burst forth from the woods behind her. If the bear charged, it would charge at her. She was far too close to it already.

      The bear lowered its claws. Luke almost thought the animal might be about to shuffle off, but instead it lunged forward, headed straight toward the woman.

      Luke had sighted his arrow in an instant, knowing he’d likely get only one shot. The woman turned and ran, the bear too close, running too fast behind her.

      Luke let loose the arrow and fit another to his string without waiting to see how well the first had flown. He raised it and saw to his relief that the bear had stopped running, though it hadn’t fallen. Snarling, the animal raised its head and swiped at the arrow that pierced its neck.

      As the bear reared up, Luke shot again, this time sinking the arrow deep in the fur of the animal’s chest. The bear slumped to the ground.

      The woman had run off.

      Luke took off in the direction in which he’d seen her disappear. He couldn’t lose her, not now, when he’d come so close after such a long search. He rounded a clump of bushes, hoping to catch sight of her far ahead, but she’d turned, looking back at the fallen bear.

      She spun toward him as he burst through the bushes.

      Fear flashed across her face, but she didn’t scream this time.

      “Please don’t run.” He extended one hand in a peaceful gesture.

      The woman watched him warily, her mouth open slightly, the fear in her eyes fading to something akin to recognition.

      Surely she had to recognize him. She’d saved his life. He recognized her, and he’d been on the brink of death, hardly conscious while she’d sewn his side back together.

      “I shot the bear,” he assured her, glancing back to see the bundle of black fur still unmoving in the clearing beyond. The bear had been poised to strike, one swipe away from defacing the woman’s beauty forever. She ought to realize that he’d helped her, even if it was his fault for frightening her into a run toward the bear in the first place.

      But when he turned to face her again, she only shook her head.

      “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Luke began, but the woman cut him off, talking rapidly in a language he didn’t recognize.

      It wasn’t Illyrian. It certainly wasn’t Lydian, nor was it Latin. As second in line to the throne of Lydia, Luke was fluent in those three languages.

      If anything, the woman’s words sounded like the Frankish tongue Luke’s sister-in-law, Gisela, had spoken as a child. She’d taught him a few words, but that had been weeks and weeks ago. He tried frantically to remember.

      “Peace,” he said, cringing as he butchered the accent.

      But the woman stopped talking and listened.

      “Peace,” he repeated, his inflection perhaps a little better that time. Try as he might, he could only remember one other word. “Cheese.”

      The woman made a face, half uncertain, half amused.

      “Sorry, that’s all I know,” he confessed in Lydian, then repeated the Frankish words. “Peace. Cheese.”

      The woman laughed, her eyes alight.

      Luke sighed with relief, though questions filled him. What was this Frankish woman doing here on the borderlands between Lydia and Illyria? Her heritage explained her pale blond hair, a rarity in their part of the world, but her background raised more questions than it answered.

      “You are good with languages.” The woman spoke in halting Illyrian. “Do you know any Illyrian?”

      “Yes.” Relieved, he switched to the familiar language of his enemies, chastising himself for not trying the tongue sooner in his excitement. “Do you recognize me?”

      She looked away, glancing to the carcass of the bear lying still in the clearing, then back in the direction of the village of Bern, where she’d saved his life. She stared that way for some time, not looking at him, nibbling at her lower lip uncertainly. Her dress was coarse, patched, befitting a woman of low station. A puzzle, indeed, for rarely did women of low station travel far beyond their homelands...unless they’d been sold as slaves.

      He couldn’t bear the thought that the woman who’d saved him might be owned by someone else—not when he had the means to buy her freedom.

      “You saved my life.” He stepped forward tentatively, fearing she might bolt again. “Please allow me to repay you.”

      But the woman shuffled backward away from him, shaking her head, her face pale again. “No,” she whispered, “no.”

      * * *

      Evelyn rubbed her eyes, blinked, looked at the man again. She had to be dreaming. She had to be. She’d dreamed of him plenty of times before, but this dream was different. She was certainly awake this time. This dream felt real.

      “You are not the man I helped,” she told him frankly, looking him full in the face and denying the way her heart leaped inside her. Granted, this stranger looked like the soldier she’d sewn together, but plenty of other men looked like him, too, at least at first glance. She’d stared at other men for months, thinking she’d seen him, then feeling foolish for hoping to find him alive knowing she couldn’t possibly see him ever again.

      He was dead. He’d died. Her efforts had failed, and the enemy had returned. In the battle that had erupted, the hut where he’d been sleeping had burned to the ground. There’d been nothing left of him but charred bones and ashes.

      She’d prayed there had been some mistake. But though her hope-filled eyes had spotted plenty of men who resembled him from afar, on closer inspection none of them were as handsome as the soldier.

      “I am,” the man insisted, stepping closer.

      Evelyn stumbled backward. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but she didn’t like it. “You can’t be. That man died.”

      He stopped advancing, scowled, reached for his shirt. “I’m not dead. You saved my life. I can show you my scar.”

      A wall of brambles prevented her from retreating further, so Evelyn turned her head and pinched her eyes shut. She couldn’t see, wouldn’t look, refused to resurrect the grief she’d felt at his death. It hadn’t ever made any sense, anyway, why the death of a stranger should tear so deeply at her heart. Her prayers for his recovery had gone unanswered, but her disappointment shouldn’t have been any deeper than what she felt daily, reduced to the status of a lowly servant in her grandfather’s household.

      God hadn’t rescued her from her position. Why did it hurt her heart so much that God had failed to save the soldier? Sorrow had stung her deeply when she’d heard of his death. Thoughts of him could drive her to tears even still. She certainly wasn’t going to revisit those raw emotions, not in front of this stranger. She kept her eyes closed, her head turned away as she sought to control the sadness that rose up inside her.

      The sun had warmed the day, and the wren that had sung to her as she’d dug valerian roots hopped closer, singing exuberantly again.

      Fingers brushed her hand, the light touch so shocking she nearly screamed again.

      “Please.” His voice was low, gentle, far too close to her. “I owe you for my life. What can I do to repay you?”

      She shook her head and kept her eyes closed tight. “You are not that man. That man died.”

      “How do you know he died?”

      “They showed me the charred bones and ashes. There was a battle. The hut burned.”

      “The