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Still, he’d never had his blood simmer so quickly. Never been left so breathless with desire. Never had his body rouse so hastily to the point of near pain.

Most critically, he’d never had his mind emptied so completely of rational thought.

It was irresponsible. Perilous. Life-threatening.

Adam had to refocus his brain.

The lady needed to get out of her monk’s attire. And it would be best if he did as well.

“Perhaps ye should change back to yourself,” he suggested.

“Myself?”

“Lady Aillenn?”

“Oh. Aye.”

She headed for the copse of trees where her satchel was stashed.

Meanwhile, Adam dug through his things. He supposed he could dress as the lady’s noble father. Or her servant. Or an elderly lady’s maid.

None of them appealed to him. What he truly desired was to be himself. To let Lady Aillenn know he was her peer. To reveal to her the real man behind the disguise.

But it was too much of a risk. People knew Adam la Nuit. For him to be seen traveling alone with a lady would set tongues to wagging. Which would be bad for both of them.

Perhaps he would come up with a new character.

He was already dressed in his white leine and dark blue surcoat, his velvet cap and fine leather boots, when she emerged in her scarlet gown.

“Ye look…” she said, stopping abruptly and searching for the right word as she perused him from head to toe with obvious approval. “Suitable.”

Her attraction pleased him.

“And who are ye now?” she asked.

He felt much better about kissing her, now that she looked like a woman and not a monk.

“I’m Ronan Bhallach.”

“Bhallach?” she squeaked. “My…my…husband?”

“Your brother,” he said, though now that he thought about it, husband did sound better.

“Ah, o’ course.”

Was it relief or regret he saw in her face? It didn’t matter. They needed to put distance between themselves and the priory.

“We should probably travel away from Saint Andrews.”

“I was headed south anyway.”

“Good. We can probably make it to Dunnin’ ere nightfall,” he said, shouldering both of their bags.

“I can carry my…” she said, making a grab for her satchel.

“Don’t be barmy,” he chided in his best Irish accent. “Our da would wallop the piss out o’ me if I laded my wee sister like a mule.”

She giggled at that. It was a sweet sound. “Fine, brother.”

“So tell me about our kin,” he said as they set out toward Dunning.

Eve narrowed her eyes. If he thought he was going to unearth all her secrets, he was mistaken. The Bhallach history was completely fictional, and she’d invented it years ago.

“Our da, Tiarna Fursa, is a chieftain. We grew up near Kilkenny,” she told him. “When our ma died five years ago, he ne’er remarried. We have two younger sisters.”

“Whose names are?”

He was thorough. She wondered how he’d remember it all. It had taken her days to memorize Aillenn’s bloodlines. “Blinne and Caitilin.” A. B. C. She kept things alphabetical for easy recollection.

“Blinne and Caitilin, right, and our da is Tiarna Fursa. And why have the two of us come to Scotland?”

“Da tried to wed me to a withered old soldier, so I ran away. I won’t go back unless ’tis with a husband o’ my own choosin’.”

He nodded. “’Tis reasonable.”

It might be reasonable, but it was completely made up. She would be saying Hail Marys for weeks after this pack of lies.

“So I came to choose a suitable bridegroom for ye?” he said with the smugness of an older brother.

“Nay. Ye came to guard my honor.”

He gave her a look so sour it made her laugh. After a moment, he asked, “So now that Lady Aillenn is in Scotland, what kind o’ bridegroom is she lookin’ for?”

She knew he was baiting her. But two could play at that game.

She pretended to consider. “I prefer short men,” she decided. “Aye, short. And pale. Fair-haired. Soft around the edges. And agreeable.”

He gave her a disgruntled glare. “So womenly men.”

A snort of laughter came out of her. She supposed her description did sound like a woman. Not her, of course, but the kind of woman most men seemed to desire.

“What about ye, brother?” she asked. “What kind o’ wife do ye see for yourself?”

“Me?”

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath, waiting for his reply, until he finally spoke again.

“I haven’t thought much on it. But I think I may be developin’ a taste for women with mule-hair beards.”

That made her laugh again. It also sent a secret thrill through her, remembering his kiss.

But they wouldn’t be doing that again. Not if he was supposed to be her brother.

As they walked along, the path opened into a grassy glade between copses of trees. The green expanse was dotted with meadowsweet and buttercups.

Adam nudged her and nodded across the lea toward a coney nibbling on a daisy. They paused to watch until it scampered off into the woods.

“What’s our home like?” he asked as they passed through the glen and entered the forest again.

Their home? For a moment, she was still thinking about what he wanted in a wife. Had he already wedded her in his mind?

Then she realized he was speaking of their family home, as her brother Ronan.

“Have ye ne’er been to Ireland?” she asked.

“Nay.”

She hadn’t either. But never having seen a place didn’t stop her from pretending she’d grown up there.

“Though I’ve heard ’tis like Scotland,” he said. “Just greener, with rollin’ hills.”

“That’s right.” She’d heard the same.

“Do ye get along with our sisters?” he asked.

She’d never considered that. The Bhallachs were fictional sisters, after all. “I suppose I do.”

“Tell me a story about them.”

Her mind went blank. Then she remembered an incident from her own real childhood and her four older sisters.

“When I was a lass,” she recounted, “my sisters were playin’ with an orphaned lamb on the Sabbath.

They accidentally chased the wee beast into a bog.

It was bleatin’ for dear life. But my sisters were afraid to go after it, for they were wearin’ their fine Sabbath clothes.

Well, I couldn’t stand by and let the poor thing drown.

So I lumbered into the bog and pried the beast out o’ the mud.

It thrashed and spattered me with muck, but I managed to save it.

When my da saw me, he said I wasn’t fit to go to church.

He shut me in the sheep pen with the rest o’ the beasts until they returned from Mass. ”

To Eve, it was a funny story.

Adam, however, didn’t see the humor at all.

“Did your sisters not defend ye?”

“For what? ’Twas my own unwise choice.”

“’Twasn’t unwise. ’Twas merciful. The lamb might have died otherwise.”

He was right. She’d never thought of it like that before. And a small part of her heart warmed at the idea that he was defending her.

But he wasn’t done. He stared at the path, shaking his head and muttering. “What kind o’ father shuts his daughter in a filthy sheep pen?”

It hadn’t been so bad. Not really. She loved the sheep.

And her da’s impatience was partly due to raising a family on his own after her ma died.

As far as missing church, she knew God didn’t care if a person prayed in a chapel or a sheep pen.

Still, for the first time in her life, Adam was forcing her to question her father’s rigid sense of discipline.

“If I’d been there, as your brother Ronan,” he said, “I would have stayed behind and helped ye clean up.”

Her heart melted at his earnest declaration. His words made her wish she had had a brother around to protect her. Then she began to imagine Adam helping her clean up. Stripping off her muddy clothes. Easing her into the warm bathwater. Running a wet linen cloth gently over every filthy inch of her.

Her face grew hot. She had to change the subject before he noticed.

“What about ye?” she choked out. “Do ye have any tales o’ childhood misdeeds?”

“Misdeeds?” he scoffed. “Nay, Ronan was an angel.”

“Ronan was hardly an angel,” she decided. “As I recall, he tied the steward’s boot laces together while he was sleepin’. Put frogs in our sisters’ beds. And regularly fed the hounds under the table.”

“All that?”

“Aye, and more.”

“I fear the truth o’ my childhood is far less interestin’.”

“What is the truth then?”

“No one paid much heed to me,” he admitted. “I was quiet. Well-behaved. I broke few rules. Ruffled no feathers.”

“Indeed?” Eve supposed she was a holy terror in contrast. She wasn’t exactly ill-behaved. Just wayward and curious, adventurous and enterprising. And she had definitely done her share of ruffling feathers. “Then how did you become the sort o’ man who dares to impersonate the emissary o’ the Pope?”

“How do ye know I’m not the emissary o’ the Pope?”

He was jesting with her, of course. Still, she wasn’t exactly sure who he was. And she really wanted to know.

“Do ye have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

“Just ye and our two younger sisters, Blinne and Caitilin, aye?”

“Not Ronan,” she chided. “Ye.”

“Me? A few,” he said evasively.

“Older or younger?”

“Both.”

She had imagined he was the youngest, like her. She was sure that was part of the reason she felt unseen. Perhaps being in the middle made him feel invisible as well.

It was no secret that Eve had been a disappointment to her parents, simply by virtue of her birth. The last thing a clan with no sons wanted was a fifth daughter.

But what was his story?

“Why disguise yourself?” she asked. “Are ye in trouble with the law?”

“Me? I told ye, I’m not a feather ruffler.”

She wasn’t sure she believed that. Anyone who dared to confront the king dressed as the Pope’s emissary surely caused trouble once in a while. And he’d almost been beaten for carnal temptation at the priory. If that wasn’t ruffling feathers, she didn’t know what was.

“What about ye?” he asked. “Are ye a lawbreaker?”

“I told ye, I’m a runaway bride.”

“Ah, so ye said, but are ye truly Lady Aillenn?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “’Tis yet to be determined. I’m not certain I’ve met the real woman yet.”

She didn’t reply.

He grinned.

As they walked on, her mind coiled around possibilities.