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Eve felt forbidden heat in her body again. Blood rushing through her veins. A heavenly hum in her ears. Drowsy desire in her eyes.

Despite years of wearing the garments of others—ladies, servants, archers, monks, even courtesans—she’d never kissed a man before.

Why would she? She was a nun. It was wrong. Right?

God forgive her, it didn’t feel wrong.

And she wanted to do it again.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, opening her mouth in invitation.

He answered with a kiss so tender, she wondered if she imagined it. But nay. His touch was real. His breath was warm.

Even that light brush caused a ripple of yearning to reverberate through her. Her heart quickened. Her skin tingled. Her breasts swelled. A delicious throbbing began betwixt her thighs.

Fearing he’d pull away, she angled her head, deepening the kiss. But then she feared he wouldn’t pull away, that she’d be swallowed, body and soul. She faltered, unable to decide whether to stop or go on.

He decided for her.

He pulled her into his embrace.

Then he lowered his lips to hers again, firmer this time. Moving his mouth over hers. Nuzzling her cheek. Tasting her as if she were an irresistible, ripe peach.

His hand drifted up and his fingers left a trail of shivers along her bare throat. He reached beneath her hood and caressed the flesh at the side of her neck.

She made a sound she’d never made before. A soft moan.

It frightened her. Who was this woman making such sounds?

Yet his touch simultaneously excited and comforted her.

He groaned in answer, giving the lobe of her ear a gentle squeeze.

When she gasped, he parted her lips farther with his tongue, making cautious explorations.

Her pulse began to race. Was she afraid? Or excited?

She lifted her hands and placed them on his chest. Whether to push him away or haul him closer, she wasn’t sure. She rested them upon the firm muscle there, remembering the similar enticing contours of his bare back.

Her head swam in a sea of confusion. Was she coursing through the waves like a spirited dolphin? Or about to drown in the depths of an unforgiving ocean?

She wanted more. Her body craved…something.

Just as she was about to press closer to discover what it was, she felt him chuckle against her mouth.

Jarred out of her lusty languor, she pulled back.

For one awful instant, glancing at the amusement in his eyes, she thought he was laughing at her.

What had she done wrong? Had she been too aggressive? Was she supposed to be still? She knew nothing about kissing.

Then he cupped her chin, tilted his head, and explained, “I’ve ne’er kissed anyone with a beard before.”

Relief melted into a smile. “I’ve ne’er kissed anyone be—” The words were out before she could stop them.

His brow creased. “What?”

She hadn’t meant to confess that. She was supposed to be a lady. Surely Lady Aillenn would have had many suitors.

“I mean,” she amended with a blush, “the pilgrim has ne’er kissed anyone.”

“Ah,” he said. But he didn’t look like he believed her explanation. “Shall we change out o’ this holy garb ere someone thinks a pair o’ errant monks are indulgin’ in carnal temptation?”

She knew he was jesting. But those two words had never sounded so tempting as they did now on his lips.

He was right. They needed to change their identities to throw off any possible pursuers. Besides, the mule-hair beard was not only unsavory. It was getting itchy. Perhaps the painstaking process of removing it would erase any sensual, intrusive thoughts.

She gulped. “Aye. My satchel is in the copse ahead.” Then she remembered. “But I’ll need to find verjuice to remove the beard.” The acid would help dissolve the pine pitch she’d used to adhere it.

“I’ve got verjuice.”

“Ye do?” Who carried verjuice with them? She always had to seek out a kitchen to procure the stuff.

“In my satchel.” Then he gave her a sly glance. “’Tis how I usually remove my fake beard, when ’tisn’t bein’ torn off by a vexed lass.”

Thankfully, the mule hair hid her blush. She supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t decided to tear her beard off in revenge.

“Come sit,” he said, patting a moss-covered boulder. Then he reached behind the boulder and pulled out his satchel.

He uncorked a clay vessel and wet a linen rag with its pungent contents. Then he began dabbing the liquid carefully along the edge of her beard. The odor was sour, sharp, and strong, but the verjuice effectively dissolved the sticky pine pitch.

As he worked, leaning so close to her face, she couldn’t help but study him.

How no one could recognize him in his various disguises, she didn’t know.

True, it could be said he had no particularly distinguishing features.

His hair and eyes, like hers, were a neutral brown.

Unremarkable. Nondescript. He wasn’t especially tall or short.

Heavy or thin. Neither strong as an ox nor weak as a kitten.

She supposed he could be called ordinary.

But to her, he was singular. Exceptional. Unforgettable.

His skin was lightly tinted by the sun to a warm hue.

His brows were refined and expressive. His thick lashes shadowed alert eyes that missed nothing.

His nose was straight and noble. His jaw could be resolute or yielding.

His mouth was generous and quick to smile.

His lips were kind. And tender. And delicious.

He was gently tugging the mule hair free from beneath her nose when he lifted his gaze and caught her staring. He stopped his ministrations and gave her a knowing grin.

Unfortunately, the acrid odor of the verjuice-soaked linen tickled her nose at that moment. She squinched up her eyes. Gave a little gasp. And sneezed.

He recoiled with a laugh.

After that, she tried very hard not to meet his gaze. But it wasn’t easy. When she tired of staring through the pines over his shoulder, she tried closing her eyes.

That only heightened her other senses. She felt his light breath upon her face. The soft touch of his fingers. The heat emanating off of him as he crouched close.

She inhaled the scent of him. Worn leather. Clean sweat. And a faint, spicy incense that lingered in the fabric of his cassock.

“There,” he murmured as he loosened the last bit of beard from her chin.

She made the mistake of opening her eyes.

Then she made the mistake of gazing into his.

His fingers still rested lightly upon her jaw, and he lifted her chin slightly.

Her eyes lowered. One corner of his lip rose in a welcoming, bemused smile.

She couldn’t help herself. She wanted another kiss. This one without the beard. She leaned forward, pressing her thirsty lips against his in invitation.

At first, she simply enjoyed the pliant warmth of his flesh as she tasted his succulent mouth. Then her breath came in hungry gulps as she began to feast upon him, angling her head to consume more and more.

He responded with equal fervor, moving his hand to cradle her cheek. The other hand came round to press at the nape of her neck, drawing her closer.

The world spun around her as powerful sensations tumbled her thoughts and dazed her emotions. She let herself be tossed about like a feather on the wind, even as the currents increased in strength, threatening to take away all of her control.

A whirlwind swept through her. Filled her lungs with life. Flooded her veins with lust. She lifted her arms around his neck.

Then there was a loud rustle in the brush.

The noise startled them apart.

Panic scattered her senses.

What was that?

Who was it?

Curse her inattention. How could she have left herself so vulnerable?

But he quickly chuckled, muttering, “Damned squirrel.”

No danger then. Still, the enchantment was broken. Her relieved sigh was shaky. And she was mortified by how unguarded she’d allowed herself to become.

She wiped a trembling hand across her lips. Whether to erase his kiss or to calm her hunger, she wasn’t sure.

“We should go,” she decided hoarsely.

He nodded in agreement. “Or at least change our disguises.”

Eve was too upset by her own lack of awareness to appreciate his gentle humor.

What was wrong with her? She’d always managed to stay out of trouble by exercising caution. She was always aware of her surroundings. Attuned to sights and sounds and instincts that warned her of danger.

But this man—this beguiling man who could enthrall her with a kiss—left her devoid of sense.

She dared not let it happen again.

It was more than a matter of sinful longing.

It was a matter of survival.

Adam tightened his jaw as he stuffed the vessel of verjuice and the mule-hair beard into his satchel.

He had to be careful.

This woman was bringing out something dangerous in him. Something that made him act foolish. Take risks he shouldn’t. And left him woefully oblivious to the outside world.

That squirrel could have been the prior. Or an outlaw. Or a lawman.

Anyone stumbling upon two monks in each other’s arms could have meant death for them. At the very least, their true identities might have been revealed, and that would have been the end of Adam’s livelihood.

The kiss was his fault.

She’d just been so damned irresistible.

And once he’d removed that ridiculous mule-hair beard, he hadn’t been able to keep from leaning in toward her delicate chin, silky cheek, and yielding lips.

He hadn’t expected to have such a strong reaction.

It wasn’t as if he was inexperienced when it came to kissing.

After all, he was a Rivenloch. Though his need for anonymity meant he tended to distance himself from others, sometimes he did exist as Sir Adam la Nuit.

And as an unmarried warrior from a respected clan, he attracted a certain amount of female attention.

Most of it from unclaimed lasses drooling over the wealth and status that would accompany marriage to a knight of Rivenloch.

He’d done his share of flirting and fondling. He’d swived more than a few maids in the course of his journey to manhood.