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“Ye might be a mummer,” she considered. Troupes of mummers traveled from manor house to village square, performing raucous plays for coin.

He voiced no opinion on that, simply gazing down the road with a half smile on his face.

“Or maybe ye’re a tailor. That would explain how ye acquired all the clothin’.”

He acknowledged her guess with a nod, but neither confirmed or denied it.

“Though some o’ your clothin’ is so bedraggled, perhaps ye’re a rag-picker.”

“My clothin’ is not bedraggled,” he protested, spreading his arms to show her the cut of his dark blue surcoat.

It was very high quality. His cap was rich velvet. His leine made of the finest linen. And the way his clothing hugged his masculine form…

She wouldn’t think of that. But if he hadn’t stolen the garments—and she still wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t a thief—they must have cost a wee fortune.

Eve continued to mull over possibilities, including the most unlikely—that he was like her, devoted to the church, performing good deeds in God’s name.

But she quickly had to dismiss that idea. No man of the cloth would pose as the Pope’s emissary. Or lay hands on a woman the way he had at the priory. Or kiss her with the practiced passion of a man accustomed to…

She gasped in sudden revelation. “Ye’re a spy, aren’t ye? An agent o’ the Scots king, sent to spy upon his subjects?”

He lifted one amused brow. “A spy?”

“Or maybe…” She considered another chilling possibility. “Ye’re an agent o’ the English king, infiltratin’ the enemy.”

He lifted the second brow. “An English spy?”

She glanced around the woods to ensure they were alone and whispered, “Are ye?”

“Well, if I were,” he whispered back, “I certainly wouldn’t tell ye, would I?”

She narrowed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek.

What a frustration he was.

Eve had made an art of being oblique. Elusive. Dissembling. Like a leaf on the breeze, she could drift along on a current of deceit and—if a man came too close to her truth—dance out of his reach with words of distraction.

She was accustomed to being the deceiver. The one in control of things. An omniscient observer who could clearly see all the players while maintaining her anonymity.

So far she’d been able to remain anonymous. But she didn’t like being the deceived. It made her feel off-balance and uneasy.

Adam—if that was indeed his name—was as slippery as a salmon.

To be honest, part of her was intrigued by that. He was clever. And mysterious. And enticing. In some ways, she felt as if she’d met her counterpart.

But she also felt threatened by his secrecy. And frustrated that she couldn’t see through it.

Still, on such a beautiful day, it was hard to stay irritated.

Around them, the calm silence of the trees was broken by the chirrups of sparrows and wrens.

Startled lizards skittered beneath rocks.

A mouse scampered through last year’s leaf fall while butterflies floated through glades of sun-drenched cowslip.

A pair of red squirrels made chase up the trunk of an oak.

Spring was a time for fresh beginnings, and the forest was alive with the gift of resurrection. The sun dappled the path with light. Bright green leaves sprouted from winter-black limbs. Blossoms of yellow and violet popped up through the verdant glen.

Eve took a deep breath. The earthy scents of moss and lichen mingled with the heady fragrance of woodbine. The breeze was warm. And ripe. And inviting. Whispering through the pines like a man summoning a lover to his bed.

She’d just begun to drift toward sinfully sensuous musings when she heard a sudden, loud rustle from the meadow beyond the trees.

She froze.

Adam stopped beside her.

Was it more thieves? A pack of wolves? A boar?

The rustling continued, and she peered between the trees to see a tumbling ball of brown fur in the midst of the grass.

“Hares,” Adam decreed.

She saw them now. A pair of hares rolled and wrestled and romped in the grass. But they weren’t young leverets playing with their siblings. These were grown animals. Which, since it was spring and mating season, meant they were likely two males fighting over a female.

While she watched, they reared up on their hind legs and began to pommel each other with their front paws. It was both comical and vicious.

She clucked her tongue at the fierce fighting. “Such a pitiful waste, two lads quarrelin’ o’er a lass.”

“I don’t think—”

“But alas, it seems to be the nature o’ the male animal of all species.” She winced as she watched a tuft of fur fly free. “’Tis self-destructive and pointless. Yet they’d rather suffer bites and breaks and bruises than settle for not gettin’ what they want, whether ’tis a hare or a dog…or a man.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye. Like those two Rivenloch men at Perth who nigh started a clan feud o’er love o’ the same lady.”

“Rivenloch men?” he said.

She blanched. She’d said too much.

“What do ye know about Rivenloch men?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Just somethin’ I heard at the tourney. A Rivenloch man will draw his sword o’er who gets the last oatcake, am I right?” Then she turned her attention to the battling hares once again. “’Tis foolish. ’Tisn’t as if there’s a dearth o’ oatcakes. Or females.”

“Right. As I started to say—”

“Oh. They’ve stopped.” She looked over at him, pleased. “Perhaps they’ve listened to my sage advice and seen the error o’ their ways.”

Before she could fully enjoy her smug satisfaction, he cleared his throat and nodded toward the hares.

One of the hares had leaped onto the back of the other and was now rapidly pumping away in what was clearly fornication.

“Oh.” Her jaw dropped. Her face flamed.

The idea that the second hare was a female had never occurred to her. But it had to Adam.

She heard him snicker beside her, which made her blush even more.

Gathering what dignity she could, she tore her gaze away from the mortifying spectacle, spun with a disgusted swish of her skirts, and paced down the path.

His repressed laughter followed her, but he thankfully spoke no more of it.