The Secret Princess (14 page)

Evelyn blinked up at him, unsure what he meant. His expression was somber, still tinged by sleep, his eyes heavy lidded and slightly sad. Evelyn couldn’t think what he meant, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the mess
with Garren’s crown. Somehow she had to make things right. Above all else, she would try to keep war from Lydia, but she could think of only one thing that would do it.

She led Luke and his men back toward the horse, whispering quickly. “Bertie stole Garren’s crown,” she explained.

“He mentioned missing it.”

“I didn’t know until I found it in his pack just now. Please forgive him.
He is only a child. He didn’t understand what he was doing.”

“I can forgive him—” Luke met her eyes, and she saw deep sorrow in his weary face “—but that doesn’t appease Garren’s anger any.”

“I know.” She let out a breath and tried to suck in courage but got only a whiff of Luke’s manly scent. It made her want to press her face against him and hold him tight. But there wasn’t nearly
time for that. Garren and his men could awaken at any moment. “I can think of only one way to appease Garren.”

“What’s that?”

“Give him someone to blame—somewhere to divert his anger to keep him from taking his revenge on Lydia.”

“And who would we blame? Greece? Rome? Another Illyrian tribe on the far side of the mountains?”

It took all her strength, but Evelyn spoke the word
aloud. “Me.”

Luke froze, and something like anger flashed in his eyes. “You?”

She nodded, explaining quickly before she could lose her courage. “Tell him I took it. It’s not a lie, really. I escaped with my brother and the crown. Tell him it was all my fault—”

“But he’ll kill you.” Luke took hold of both her arms and looked her full in the face, his expression incredulous.

She pleaded with him silently, staring into his face as the rising sun lit his features with increasing brightness. How could she make him understand? Better that she die for Lydia than die for her father’s crimes. At least then, Luke might remember her with appreciation instead of anger. “If it would save Lydia and maybe even save my brother—”

Luke’s jaw tightened. “I won’t lose you this
way.”

Dan and Sacha, who’d been fidgeting at his side while they spoke, now interrupted. “Your Highness, we must be going,” Dan told him.

Sacha added, “The Illyrians are sure to awaken any moment. We can’t let them find you here. We must get back to Sardis.”

“They’ll follow me to Sardis,” Luke reminded his men.

“The city has walls,” Dan told him.

“We can defend Sardis.”
Sacha looked warily about as he spoke, one hand fingering the arrows in the quiver at his back. “We can’t defend these woods, not when our enemies are as thick as the trees.”

Evelyn held tight to Luke’s arms. If he fled to Sardis, war would follow him—unless she could convince King Garren to end his rage by placing all the blame on her. She made up her mind quickly. “Hurry to Sardis. Prepare
to face King Garren, but you may not have to. Pray my ruse works.”

Luke stared at her as though she spoke some foreign tongue and not the Illyrian language they’d been speaking together all along. “No,” he whispered forcibly. “You will not die for me.”

“Not just for you but for all of Lydia.”

“Your death would not protect my people. King Garren would not be satisfied, not if he
felt he had an excuse for waging war.” Luke spoke with authority.

With a sinking heart, Evelyn wondered if he wasn’t correct after all. She knew her grandfather quite well—she’d seen his conniving firsthand too many times to trust him for even a moment. And if he killed her, she wouldn’t be able to protect her brother or Lydia...or Luke. “Then what shall we do? What hope is there?”

“Where is the crown?”

“This way.” She led him to the horse and pulled it out. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I have no idea.” Luke took it as she handed it to him. “But I thought I ought to see this thing for which I was tied up half the night and feared I would surely die.”

Dan and Sacha stood on either side of them, their eyes trained back in the direction of Garren and his
men. “They’re still asleep,” Dan murmured quietly, “but who knows for how much longer? We must move.”

“Go,” Evelyn urged the prince.

“What will you do?”

“I’ll stay here and try to think of something.”

“I can’t leave you.” Luke looked at her with longing. “Not like this, not with Garren’s men ready to pounce. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.” He held the
crown in one hand, and with the other he touched her cheek, running his fingers along the line of her temple, then cupping her chin lightly, pulling her close to him.

“I know how to take care of myself,” she reminded him, hoping he’d believe the words better than she did.

“I want to take care of you.” Luke drew closer to her as he whispered.

She realized a moment before his lips
touched hers that he was going to kiss her, and she closed the space between them with urgency, telling herself she ought to hasten his journey but knowing in her heart she longed for his touch and could not wait an instant longer.

His lips melted to hers, so strong and yet so strangely soft, a manly mixture she thought she might never tire of if she had a lifetime to explore it. She leaned
toward him, eager for his warmth, his strength, his touch.

Then a fierce shout shattered the silence of the woodland morning.

“Traitor!”

Luke tore his lips from hers, and Evelyn looked up onto a rocky bluff nearer the caves to see Warrick glaring down at them, sword raised high.

“He has the crown of my father!” Warrick shouted as he and his men charged toward them.

Evelyn
looked with Luke and his men for some route of escape, but Warrick’s cries had awakened Garren’s men, who scrambled to their feet as Omar shouted, “To arms!”

There was nowhere to retreat. The Illyrians spread wide, swords drawn, arrows fitted to their bowstrings, all of them pointed at their small party. They were surrounded.

Chapter Fourteen

L
uke tucked Evelyn against his side as he watched the Illyrians maneuver through the woods. Their enemies were too far away to use their swords, but they encircled them much too closely to use their arrows without risking injury to their own men across the circle. Indeed, Garren and Warrick nearly faced each other, and if either of them or the men nearest them
tried to shoot at Luke, their arrow might well fly straight past him to the king or his heir.

So for the moment at least, their lives were safe. But as his archers kept their arrows trained on Luke and his small party, Omar led Garren around through the woods toward the caves, nearer Warrick. At the rate they were moving, Garren would soon be safely ensconced by his men at the encampment
among the caves.

The Illyrians could let their arrows fly freely then.

Luke thought quickly, knowing he might have only moments more to live. Garren had said he wanted his crown and signet ring. Luke had the crown in his hand. He held it high above his head.

“King Garren, do you seek this crown?” he called out, loud enough to be heard above Garren’s clumsy footsteps crashing through
the woods and the scrambling of his soldiers all around him.

The crashing and scrambling stilled.

“You know I do.”

“And your ring?”

“My signet ring. Have you got it?”

“I do not. I believe the boy, Bertie, took it.”

“Where is he?” King Garren snarled, and looked about, his grogginess betraying the lingering effects of the drink he’d imbibed recently.

“He is hiding
because he fears you,” Luke called out with added volume, hoping that if Bertie was within earshot, he’d hear the message to stay hidden and preserve his life. “He took your crown and ring in haste and now regrets his decision.”

“As well he should. Stupid boy.” Then Garren called, “Bertie! Bertie, come out! Bring me back my ring!” As he spoke, the king shuffled back toward the caves and a
massive pile of logs near one craggy entrance.

“Father, be careful!” Warrick cried. “The caves are unstable.”

Garren laughed and shook his head, directing his next words at Luke. “I see you have something else that belongs to me—my slave. I made you an offer before. If you wish to preserve your life, you’d do well to accept my terms now. These lands in exchange for those two Frankish
slaves—and give me back my jewels.”

“These lands are unstable, Father!” Warrick reminded the king, but Garren pressed his back to the pile of logs, pulling Omar back beside him, creating a safe cranny of cover in the otherwise wide-open woods. He could call for his archers to shoot now and duck down behind Omar under the cover of the log pile and stay safely tucked away until everyone else
was dead.

Luke knew Garren well enough to know he wouldn’t hesitate to make that call—and might act at any moment. He had to keep the king talking—but he wasn’t about to give Evelyn back to her cruel master, not after she’d proven her allegiance by freeing him.

“These lands are unstable.” Luke repeated Warrick’s warning.

With one hand on the log pile, King Garren scooted alongside
the stack of felled trees toward the nearest cave entrance, which was among the largest in the vicinity. Luke wondered if the cowardly king was going to try to hide out in the caves while his archers risked their lives defending him.

“You say these lands are unstable,” Garren challenged. “I know the truth. These caves are full of gold. You want only to frighten me away to keep the riches
for yourself, but I don’t frighten easily. I know what you’re up to. I won’t be fooled!”

“No, Father!” Warrick’s cries increased as the king neared the cave entrance, where the last of the logs had been leaned on end against the tall pile of tree trunks. “Prince Luke speaks the truth. During the night, I spoke with the men encamped here. They fear the caves and rightly so, for they’ve seen
the very earth give way beneath their feet and the ground above their heads crumble down upon them. To mine these caves is folly, deadly folly.”

“Where does your allegiance lie, Warrick?” Garren’s tone deepened from shrill defense to hardened anger. “You’ve been away visiting these Lydians more than you’ve been at home of late. You’d rather be one of them, would you? You don’t want them to
give up the gold to me—you’d rather they keep it, since you side with them.”

“My concern is not for the gold, Father, but for your safety.”

“I’ll worry about my safety and that of our holdings.” Garren redirected his attention to Luke. “These lands for the girl, or my archers’ arrows fly.”

“What of your signet ring?”

“We’ll go through all your pockets once you’re dead.”

As Garren spoke, a wild growl echoed up from somewhere behind him, so that the king’s statement, which started out as a booming threat, lost some of its clout as Garren looked warily to the lip of the cave above him.

Luke saw a dark form shuffling along the stone ledge above the cave opening. Something was up there on the outcropping of rock—something big.

The roar sounded again, half
fierce, half injured or mournful and altogether unnerving.

“What is it?” Warrick asked.

“Is it an animal?” Omar bumbled back, crashing into the log pile as he strained to look up and locate the source of the sound.

“A bear,” Luke identified as a dark snout nosed its way into view followed by a set of sharp claws.

“A bear!” Omar stumbled into the logs, fear in his voice.

Luke had no doubt the man’s memories of his encounter with the bear in the ravine were still fresh enough to fuel the fear in his words. But at the same time, his distracted stumbling along the log pile had caused the tree trunks stacked there to shift. “Take care! Away from those logs.”

Omar looked up, and appreciation for his predicament shimmered in his eyes. “Away from the logs, my king.”
He held out one hand toward Garren to pull him away from the shifting stack, which was piled high above their heads. Any one of the thick trunks might crush a man.

Garren batted his hand away. “You don’t give orders to me. Archers—ready! Aim!”

King Garren’s words were covered by another roar, this time louder and fiercer than the ones before. A great clawed paw swept down over the lip
of the cave, swiping in the direction of the king.

“Aim where?” one of the Illyrian archers called out. “At the Lydian prince, or the bear?”

Even King Garren seemed uncertain which to choose.

“Away, Father!” Warrick cried, keeping a safe distance himself. “If not from the logs then from the bear and the arrows that we ought to send at him.”

King Garren, as though sensing the
situation was slipping away from his control and seeking to reassert his insistence on achieving his aims, locked eyes on Luke instead of answering his archer’s question. “These lands for the girl, or the archers will have you both.”

But Luke hoped to delay the king’s hand. He’d lived with the questions of Evelyn’s background for too long not to take a chance at learning answers, especially
now when the bear might yet chase Garren from his hiding place and turn events to Luke’s favor.

As the bear growled on the lip of the cave above the king, Luke pulled Evelyn closer against his side and shouted his question. “She is of noble birth. What right do you have to enslave her?”

“For her father’s crimes.” The odd delight in King Garren’s voice sent a shiver through Luke. “For
plundering and raiding, plotting and murder. For creating enmity between me and my neighbors. Indeed, I find it strange that you stand beside her, that you would want to touch her at all.”

The bear above him growled more ferociously, swiping downward with both claws now as though King Garren’s words had angered it. Garren was too focused on his speech to look up. The king seemed convinced
that the bear wouldn’t leap down a drop of twice his height from the ledge above.

“Who was her father?” Luke had to force a casual tone into his words, reminding himself that Garren’s speech was surely more smoke than substance. He shouldn’t let it unnerve him so. And yet it seemed to hang in the air precariously between them, as unstable as the pile of logs that Omar held braced in place
behind the king.

Garren chuckled greedily. “You do not know? You do not know!”

Luke felt Evelyn pull away from him slightly, but he kept his eyes trained on the king, on the pile of trees behind him and the angry bear above him.

The world seemed to slow for a moment as Garren swung his arms out wide, proclaiming happily, “Rab the Raider was her father—the man who murdered your father
and caused these wars between us. She and her brother must pay for his crimes, though it will take them and their offspring many generations of service to do so.”

Luke stumbled back, dropping the arm he held around Evelyn’s shoulders. King Garren couldn’t have told the truth. Evelyn knew Rab the Raider had killed his father. Surely, if Garren’s words were true, she’d have told him much sooner.

And yet he could see the resemblance now, though Rab the Raider’s nose had been broken, twisted to the side, deforming his face. Still, she had his broad forehead, his stature, something of his bold fierceness in the set of her eyes.

“He didn’t know?” King Garren guffawed distantly. “He didn’t know? Well, I can see there will be no bargaining now that he no longer wants the woman. Archers,
ready! Aim—at the prince.”

“Father, no!” Warrick shouted as King Garren backed farther against the pile of logs and the relative safety they offered.

But the pile had shifted since Garren had stepped that way last, and he stumbled over a jutting branch, slipping backward with force against the pile, causing the whole stack to lurch.

“No!” Omar cried out, his efforts to brace the
pile now overwhelmed by the heaving and tottering of the great round beams.

“To the king!” Warrick cried to the Illyrians gathered around. “Save him!”

The men looked bewildered for one long moment, clearly unsure which royal to obey. Garren struggled to regain his footing, succeeding only in dislodging the various logs he tried to grab as those under his feet rolled forward, propelled
farther by the churning of his boots as he fumbled for steady foothold among them.

“Away from the logs, Father!” Warrick cried as he bounded toward the king.

But he was too late. The toppling pile had given way from beneath, and now the whole unstable mass of it came tumbling down, log after log, bouncing and rolling as they shifted forward, quickly burying Omar and Garren below.

“Father!” Warrick reached the logs as they settled into a still heap, with no sign of the king or his night guard beneath their massive thickness.

“Careful,” Luke warned as he approached. “The pile is still unsteady. And watch for the bear.”

“Archers—aim for the bear,” Warrick shouted.

Suddenly a pale head popped up from the lip of the cave. “Please, no! Please! It was only the bearskin.”
Bertie’s face had gone as pale as his hair.

Warrick groaned and shook his head, lunging toward the logs, ignoring the boy now that the threat of the bear no longer hovered above him. “Father!” he cried, heaving one log to the side and shoving it away. “Father!”

Luke hesitated for only a moment. He trusted Warrick far more than he’d ever trusted Garren—Warrick was betrothed to Elisabette,
after all, and thereby personally bound to peace with Lydia. Besides the compassion Luke felt for the suddenly-bereaved prince, Luke knew he must hasten to assist Warrick. If the prince blamed or resented him for his father’s death, not even Elisabette would keep the peace between them. For the sake of peace in Lydia, Luke knew he and his men must do all they could to assist the Illyrian prince.

“Hurry, men! Help him!” Luke called to the soldiers, Lydian and Illyrian alike. He had little hope for the Illyrian king, though he supposed if the logs had fallen just right, they might have offered the king protection instead of death. Luke reached Warrick’s side and bent to help him, realizing then he still held Garren’s crown in his hand.

“Here.” He held the symbol of sovereignty
out to Warrick.

The prince only shook his head. “Help me with the logs. What good is a crown without a king to wear it?”

The enormous trunks were heavy, some of them requiring four or more men to move them to the side. They’d landed in such a tangle that some ends had to be pulled free and others stuck in place until those that trapped some stretch of their length had been moved. Luke
tried to direct the operation for speedy, efficient progress, but Warrick’s cries for his father drowned out many of his words. The more logs they removed, the more Luke realized their efforts were surely in vain.

It wasn’t until they reached Omar’s still body that Luke stood back and looked around, realizing then that Bertie and Evelyn were nowhere to be seen. The pale horse Bertie had ridden
was missing, as well.

“Warrick.” Luke panted from the exertion of heaving the huge trunks. “The slaves?”

The Illyrian prince glanced up and looked around, blinking away tears, the situation having clearly shifted his concerns. He shook his head. “Good riddance to them. May they never return. Help me lift this beam.”

Luke did as Warrick instructed, tugging the timber backward, revealing
a glimpse of fabric beneath.

“Father!” Warrick’s cries redoubled as the men peeled back more logs, uncovering the still, crushed form of the king. The prince’s voice rose to a wail.

Luke stood silently beside him, his heart heavy. He hadn’t meant for King Garren to die, though his enemy had been intent on taking his life. He certainly hadn’t meant to cause his sister’s fiancé such grief.
What would become of the relations between their kingdoms? Would Warrick blame Lydia for his father’s death? What if he turned on him that very moment? Luke and his men were vastly outnumbered.

And what had happened to Evelyn and Bertie? Luke felt the sting of the woman’s betrayal. She had known all along that her father had killed his. She had intentionally kept her secret from him. She’d
let him kiss her more than once, all the while remaining silent. The knowledge burned through him as deep as Warrick’s wailing grief.