The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla

the pale-haired woman. So he took a chance.

      “Have you got a key to this door?”

      “There’s only one key, and King Garren keeps it.”

      Luke had feared as much. At least the boy seemed helpful. “How can I open the lock, then?”

      “I’ve tried it all the times I was locked in there. Never could get it without the key.”

      Only slightly discouraged, Luke tried to glean as much as he could quickly in case the youth was called away—or caught. “Is there a guard stationed at the base of the tower?”

      “Yes, but I brought him a drink earlier to help him sleep. He’s dozing now. That’s how I got past. I’d have brought you something to eat, but I didn’t think he’d be asleep so soon. I saw a chance and took it.” The youth peered at him curiously between the bars in the small opening in the door. “They say you’re a prince and a Christian.”

      Luke suddenly felt his heart beating hard, though he wasn’t sure precisely why. “That I am.”

      The boy whispered something. Luke couldn’t quite catch his words, but it sounded almost as though he’d said, “So am I.”

      But before Luke could ask him to repeat himself, the boy spoke again. “I belong in the Holy Roman Empire. If I help you get out of here, can you help me get home?”

      Luke felt his sympathies soften immediately at the youth’s earnest request. “I would do everything in my power.”

      Suddenly the boy’s face brightened, and Luke had no question the two pale-haired servants must be related. The boy had Biddy’s smile.

      “And my sister, too. Can you help my sister escape from this place?”

      “Your sister.” Luke’s heart hammered inside him, and he fought the urge to barrage the boy with questions about the young woman. Instead, he agreed quickly. “I would gladly help her, as well.”

      “Good.” The boy shoved something long and pointed through the window to Luke. “This might be of some help to you.”

      Luke took the object—a rough sort of knife, probably fashioned by the boy himself out of a cast-off piece of metal. As he tried it in the lock, he started to inquire of the boy about his sister. But the youth had turned his attention to the stairs.

      “I shouldn’t tarry any longer. You should wait for darkness before you try to leave. Garren’s men drink heavily at dinner. You’ll find your passage through the rest of the fortress much easier if you wait until after then.”

      “Thank you,” Luke whispered hurriedly as the boy retreated down the stairs. “And tell your sister not to worry about me.”

      He didn’t hear any response but listened carefully, breathing freely only after some time had passed without any sound that might indicate the youth had gotten caught.

      Luke was glad for that. The boy had brought him a useful tool as well as valuable information about the guard below. It was sure to increase his chances of escaping.

      And just as certainly, Luke intended to do all he could to make good on his promise to help the slaves escape. The woman they called Biddy had saved his life. He owed them both.

      Rather than pick the lock now and risk discovery, Luke decided to wait until closer to sunset to make his bid for freedom. For now he leaned on the windowsill and looked out over the stunning vista. King Garren might have only used the view as bait to lure him to the tower, but indeed, the vista provided an unparalleled picture of the lands between Fier and Lydia. In the distance Luke could see a charred spot amidst the woods—the tiny village of Bern, where he’d lain injured. The very spot where the pale-haired woman had saved his life.

      At the thought of her, Luke felt his stomach lurch, and he mulled the reason for his response. Granted, the woman was kind and lovely, gracious and gentle—all things a man might appreciate in a female. But she was also a slave. Any affection he felt toward her was mere gratitude for the sacrifices she’d made on his behalf—first in saving his life and then in rightfully trying to warn him from this place.

      Gratitude. That was all he felt, that and reciprocal generosity—an urge to fulfill his promise to the boy that he would somehow help the siblings return to their homeland. Certainly the lurching in his stomach could be no more than that. Luke had no interest in romance. Never had. Someday he’d perform his duty and marry a bride befitting a prince, a noblewoman whose connections could solidify peace in Lydia.

      Until then he ought to put thoughts of other women far from his mind...except that the pale-haired woman had already proven to be unforgettable.

      * * *

      When Garren returned alone, Evelyn guessed what he’d done. He had the key to the tower door in the bag at his waistband. She could see the distinctive bulge of it. She knew it well. He’d locked her in the tower a few times when she’d tried to run away. More recently, he’d threatened to marry her to Omar, the middle-aged chief of the night guard, who liked to grab at her whenever she passed near him.

      Omar was a far greater threat than the tower. She’d learned never to walk close to him, to step quickly away when clearing the table near his place. She hadn’t run away in over a year, not with the threat of marriage to Omar looming over her.

      Bertie confirmed it when she finally found him in the stables, mucking out the stalls as he was supposed to. He’d seen their grandfather pass by with the prince, had followed out of curiosity and had gone back in secret later to see the prisoner.

      “He asked about you,” her brother said, leaning on the handle of his pitchfork. He was nearly as tall as she already in spite of the eight years’ difference in age between them. Bertie was twelve and looked more like their father every day.

      “About me?” Evelyn couldn’t imagine it. “He doesn’t know my name.”

      “‘The one they call Biddy,’ he said, ‘with hair pale as moonlight and healing in her hands.’”

      Evelyn froze. “He didn’t say that.” Her brother had quite the sense of humor. She wouldn’t put it past him to tease unless he knew her feelings were tender on a subject. And he couldn’t know how tender her feelings already were for Prince Luke.

      “In truth, he said it in Illyrian,” her brother admitted, and repeated the message in that tongue. The two of them spoke Frankish when they were alone—partly to keep private whatever passed between them, partly to remind themselves of who they were and partly on her brother’s insistence, because he’d vowed to return there one day and wanted to remember how to talk to their relatives.

      “He asked me to bring you a message.”

      “What?” Evelyn hadn’t yet absorbed the fact that the prince had spoken of her at all. No prince had ever sent her a message.

      “He said not to worry about him.”

      “Not to worry?”

      “That’s what he said.”

      “What does that mean?” Had her suspicions been correct? Was the prince up to something? Evelyn hated to think the Christian would be capable of the same deceitfulness as her grandfather, but she chided herself for hoping otherwise. He was royal. Of course he was a liar. She’d be wise to be on her guard around him, lest his handsome smile and winsome ways distract her from his dishonesty.

      “I wonder the same thing,” Bertie watched her carefully, his blue eyes dancing, his pale hair the same color as the straw in the stables. “I wanted to ask, but I heard voices below and had to sneak away before I was caught.”

      “I should try to visit him myself.”

      “Don’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “He said not to worry.”

      But Evelyn worried, all through that afternoon and evening, especially when