The Secret Princess. Rachelle McCalla

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      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 hut didn’t burn. Or maybe it did, but I was gone by then.”

      “You were too weak to walk.”

      “My men helped me out.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ