The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla

hate for him, too ignorant to be properly afraid. Surely her grandfather wouldn’t let the man spy on them so blatantly, then return to Lydia unopposed to report on what he’d learned.

      Concerned, she loitered near the fire, listening, watching, hoping to determine the prince’s motives. That and, of course, she needed to be ready to remove plates and mop up messes quickly without her grandfather calling for her again and further embarrassing her in front of the prince. As she stood there alert and listening, she had time to observe Prince Luke, his bearing regal, his shoulders impossibly wide above his slim hips, his hair an ebony mane above his jet-black brows.

      It was no wonder the serving girls thought him handsome. Far more than his appearance, however, Evelyn was curious about his beliefs. The Lydians were renowned for their Christian faith—a marked contrast to Garren’s pagan household. Evelyn had met few Christians since her father had taken her and Bertie from the Holy Roman Empire following their mother’s death. She would have loved to ask Luke questions about his beliefs, but that would require getting close enough for him to smell the pig slime still on her clothes.

      “Biddy!”

      Evelyn nearly jumped when her grandfather bellowed, and she tried not to let her embarrassment show as she presented herself, dropped to a deep curtsy and began clearing away the dishes at her grandfather’s orders. When she dared to look up, she saw Prince Luke watching her, his intelligent eyes noting everything.

      He’d seen her hauling slop for pigs. He’d watched her answer to Biddy. Would he listen to her if she tried to help him again? Most likely not. She marveled that he could see her at all. Most often the serving girls were considered more a part of the palace structure than the household, more a utensil for serving than a human with feelings. A serving girl only ever took orders. She never gave them, not even if she was secretly the granddaughter of the king.

      “We need this table cleared, and bring us more light!” Her grandfather gulped one breath between barking orders at her and calling to his men to bring him maps.

      Evelyn grabbed the plates from the table and hurried to fetch candles, which were reserved for only special occasions. There was every chance her grandfather might berate her for choosing to use them when he hadn’t specifically asked her to, but if she brought him a torch instead, he might just as likely chide her for not choosing the candles.

      To her relief her grandfather said nothing to her as she placed the lit candles in their holders. His attention was instead on the maps being spread out on the table in front of him. Already he quizzed the prince on the exact placement of the borders between them.

      As Evelyn scraped plates near the kitchen door, she kept her ears alert to the sound of King Garren’s voice and so heard him suggest Prince Luke accompany him to the highest tower—to view the borders they spoke of, or so he claimed. Much as she’d have liked to follow after them, she had her hands full in the kitchen, and anyway, they’d smell her coming.

      Though she resented trickery, she hoped for Prince Luke’s sake that the Lydian nobleman was up to something. Otherwise he’d find himself quickly outmaneuvered.

      * * *

      Luke followed King Garren down the dark, twisting hallways, paying attention to every curve and fork so he could find his way back—alone if necessary. He noticed that Garren had whispered something to a couple of his guards, who now trailed behind them. Luke was distinctly aware that he was outnumbered and surrounded and no longer had the added security of a crowd of witnesses to contradict any story Garren might invent.

      Though Luke was not by nature a fearful person, the woman they called Biddy had warned him Garren might be up to something, and Luke knew enough about the man to be always on his guard around him. After all, King Garren’s illegitimate son, Rab the Raider, had killed Luke’s father, King Theodoric of Lydia, through deceptive trickery.

      King Theodoric’s death had left Luke a grieving orphan. Surely he’d learned enough through that loss not to trust King Garren.

      And yet, as they climbed the twisting stairs that led upward to the tower, Luke realized his thoughts were still focused on the pale-haired woman and the mystery of her identity. Though Luke had done his best to keep his attention on King Garren, all through dinner he’d watched the woman at her work, noting the way she kept her distance, darting in silently and unobtrusively, and the way she kept the king’s glass and plate full so he wouldn’t have to ask for anything.

      The woman had a quiet dignity about her and a graceful way of carrying herself that was uncommon among servants. Even with her rag of a dress encrusted with pig muck, she was beautiful. For long months he’d feared his feverish mind had invented her or embellished her appearance.

      To his amazement he found her to be more impressive than he’d first observed, for not only was she lovely to look upon, but her disposition and demeanor were just as attractive. In spite of King Garren’s harsh shouting, the woman neither shouted back nor hung her head, but simply did as she was asked quickly and efficiently, with such grace it caused his breath to catch in his throat.

      They reached the top of the tower, and Garren held the thick wooden door open, gesturing for Luke to pass through. “The window to your left affords the best view of the lands in question,” the king told him.

      Luke crossed the small round room and peered out through the indicated open-air stone frame. “Ah, yes. I can see the river.”

      When King Garren did not immediately appear at his side, Luke turned back. In place of any words, the king’s response was a slamming door. Luke leaped toward it but heard the key click in the lock before he reached it. He peered through the small barred window in time to see King Garren and the two guards hastily making their escape down the stairs.

      Looking down, he could see the sturdy door handle, its keyhole scratched from years of use. No doubt King Garren had often used this tower to imprison his captives.

      With a sinking heart, Luke realized the deceptive ruler had planned to imprison him all along, probably from the moment he invited him to dinner. Everything else, then, had been a ruse.

      Ah, but Luke had discovered much. And the door, though thick and heavy, was not an immovable barrier. Luke inspected what he could see of the lock, then looked around for something he could improvise as a tool.

      A small bundle of straw had been scattered about at one end. From the looks of it, more than one prisoner had used the bale as both bed and blanket. Luke plucked up the sturdiest stems and carefully plaited them together to stiffen them. With any luck, he’d pick the lock and be gone before Garren thought better of leaving him alone and decided to post a guard.

      He shook his head, laughing at his own foolishness. He’d gotten into worse spots before. In comparison, this imprisonment had been quite fruitful. He’d learned precisely how far King Garren could be trusted, which wasn’t far at all. He’d confirmed the pale-haired woman’s claim that Garren resented the peace treaty.

      Most of all, he’d found the pale-haired woman. His imprisonment was worth it if only for that. But he wasn’t about to waste what he’d learned. He had to escape and see her again.

      He tried the plaited straw in the lock but found the stick he’d made wasn’t nearly sturdy enough to budge the tumbler inside. He searched the empty space a bit longer but, still finding nothing, went back to plaiting straw again, hoping to make it stronger this time. From what he could tell, the tumbler that kept him imprisoned was heavy, and would require a prod nearly as strong as King Garren’s key to unloose it. Perhaps he wouldn’t escape as quickly as he’d like, but he wasn’t about to give up, either.

      The sun was dipping low in the sky when Luke heard soft footsteps on the stairs. Judging by the muted sound, he doubted it was a guard coming to check on him. Hope rose inside him that the pale-haired woman might have come to pay him a visit. When he caught a glimpse of fair hair rounding the corner, his heart leaped for joy, only to come crashing down in disappointment when the hair proved to be far shorter than that of the woman they called Biddy.

      Indeed, this pale hair belonged to a freckle-faced youth,