The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla

she lived within the local Illyrian fortress of Fier. The stronghold was perched high among the mountains, its rocky walls gray as the rocks from which it sprang, draped in clouds for much of the year, a harsh place where many wars had been plotted.

      He knew she cared enough about him to warn him away, though she did not know who he was.

      Intriguing.

      As a prince, second in line to the Lydian throne, he wasn’t used to anonymity, not even in these woods, where he dressed to blend in. All his men knew him. The Lydian villagers knew him.

      But the pale-haired woman didn’t know him, and yet she’d saved his life. She’d warned him away from this place, though she might have profited greatly by turning him in. Indeed, she seemed more concerned about keeping him safe than pleasing her master.

      Why?

      * * *

      Evelyn ran, stopping frequently to look behind her. There was no sign of the man, but she knew he was stealthy. He’d snuck up on her so quietly that morning, it was almost as though he’d been waiting for her there. But why would he do that?

      The thought slowed her steps, as did the memory of his face, the touch of his hand, the smile that had played at his lips as he’d spoken. Truly, she’d been drawn to him while he’d lain at death’s door, bloody and grimy from battle. To see him standing at his full height, his cheeks flush with health, sweet words on his lips...her heart might burst.

      He was alive!

      That alone was enough to lighten her steps, no matter what other burdens she still carried. True, she worked as a lowly servant in the household of her grandfather, the king. And yes, King Garren had sworn she’d labor in his household until she’d worked off all of her deceased father’s debt—which meant she’d be bound to this place for the rest of her life and still die indebted.

      But the soldier she’d tended to had lived after all. God had answered that prayer. Perhaps God would free her from her servitude or give her little brother, Bertie, an opportunity to escape this place he so despised and return to their homeland in the Holy Roman Empire.

      Evelyn arrived at the kitchen exhausted and found the room abandoned. Of course the cook would have snuck off again, probably to drink or to go back to bed after rising early to make breakfast. From the looks of the washbasins, she hadn’t begun cleanup.

      Grabbing a wooden tub, Evelyn hurried to the dining hall, where flies had found the remains of the meal. Embers in the fireplace burned low, and Evelyn hurried to stoke them. The breakfast cleanup could wait. If she let the fire burn out, they’d task her with getting another started in the drafty hearth—she’d done that and come away with a blackened face enough times to know she didn’t want to struggle with the smoke and soot again.

      “Biddy!” her grandfather bellowed from the doorway. He refused to use her given name, instead labeling her with a word that meant “chicken.” If she showed her displeasure or hesitated to answer to the name, the king would only mock her, squawking and calling for her as if calling the hens to feed.

      “Yes, Your Majesty.” She spun hastily around and dropped into a low curtsy, ankles crossed as she’d been taught. The man was quite particular. He’d kicked her feet out from under her many times before she’d learned the move to his satisfaction.

      “This room is a disgrace. Where have you been?” His dark beard, streaked with gray, bobbed above his stout belly as he spoke.

      “I found the roots I need to make you tea. It will soothe your stomach and help you sleep better.”

      Her grandfather’s fury subsided only slightly. “Brew me the tea, then. But first clean up this room.”

      “Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again, then grabbed her tub and cleared the tables, separating the scraps for the pigs. For all her grandfather’s power, his household was poorly run. He cared only about all things military—weapons, fighting, the ranks of men who lived in barracks at the base of the mountain. An imposing wall of stone and armor, the fortifications encircled the south and west sides of the mountain from cliff face to cliff face. Her grandfather boasted that his fortress had never been taken.

      “Who would even want it?” she murmured to herself as she fought a dog for a plate, tossing the animal a ham bone in exchange for the dish. The castle was rough, cold and dark—nothing like the palaces back home in the Frankish lands of the Holy Roman Empire. She thought of their polished limestone walls gleaming in the sunlight, their arched windows and symmetrical towers. The buildings were well-proportioned works of art.

      Fier was a military outpost and little more. No place for a lady. King Garren’s wife had died years before, and his only daughter, Rosalind, was sixteen—old enough that she ought to be well trained already in household management, but there was no one to teach her. Evelyn could have done it, having been raised in a noble household in the north, but her grandfather wouldn’t begrudge her the esteem that would come with that position. She’d done her best to help the girl learn how to be a lady, but Rosalind’s only interest in learning had been instruction in letters. Evelyn had taught her to read but little else.

      Evelyn carried the full tub back to the kitchen. Still no sign of the kitchen girls. They were most likely getting into mischief with Bertie and Rosalind. Without the head cook to bully them into working, they often snuck away to amuse themselves elsewhere. And it was always more work to go find them than to simply do their work for them.

      Disgusted, Evelyn dumped the remains of the meal into a bucket and made another trip to the dining hall for more scraps. Fortunately, the dogs had finished off the bulk of it, so there wasn’t much left to clear.

      By the time she’d wiped the tables clean and washed and hung the valerian roots to dry near the fire so she could crush them later for her grandfather’s tea, Evelyn had determined the girls would never return to slop the pigs. If the scraps weren’t carried out soon, they’d attract more flies and the dogs would finish them off. That left her to do the job. She slipped her feet, still secure in her leather shoes, into thick-wooden-soled pattens, tying on the protective if clumsy footwear and picking up the bucket.

      * * *

      Luke arrived at Fier with the fresh bear hide folded over his shoulders. It was a fine bearskin, not yet molted for summer, probably a yearling bear, the fur unscarred and not too rough. A fitting gift for a king, not that Garren deserved a gift.

      Still, Luke wanted to stay in the king’s good graces, especially if, as the pale-haired woman had said, King Garren resented the peace accord between their kingdoms. Besides that, Luke had left his horse at the outpost with his men. Fier was closer to where he’d killed the bear, and the skin was heavy. He didn’t want to carry it any farther than he had to.

      That was the excuse he gave himself for bringing the hide east instead of west. Luke should investigate King Garren’s resentment of the peace treaty, and what better way to do so than with a sudden unannounced visit? If Luke caught the king off guard, he might discover far more than if he gave the crafty leader time to plan ahead.

      And the pale-haired woman was somewhere in the fortress. She’d saved his life, and he had yet to learn her name. After seeking her for so long, he couldn’t bear to let her simply run away, not without at least trying to follow. She drew him as fire drew fluttering moths.

      The men at the gate of the base fortifications looked somewhat surprised to see him, but they recognized him and didn’t try to stop him, instead simply waving him in. Luke had considered the woman’s warning, but it was absurd, really. King Garren knew better than to attempt to take him prisoner, especially given that Garren’s son Warrick was currently a guest inside the walls of Castlehead in Lydia—a visit both diplomatic and personal. Warrick had become engaged to Luke’s sister, Elisabette. The two were smitten with one another, and Warrick often visited their castle.

      If Garren attempted to hold Luke against his will, King John could retaliate and hold Warrick for exchange. Surely Garren understood that any assault against Luke would endanger his own son and heir. The pale-haired woman failed to understand