Page 16

Adam wasn’t about to break the silence.

Not only because it was clear she didn’t want to discuss the incident with the hares. But also because her mention of Rivenloch had chilled him to the bone.

No one had ever uncovered his identity. No one. He couldn’t afford to be revealed now.

Later, when he was old and feeble, perhaps he’d retire from his life of disguise. But for now, he had too many services to perform, too much protection to render, too many cousins to look after to give up his gift of invisibility and his useful occupation.

He’d already made the mistake of giving her his real first name. The fact she’d mentioned his clan meant she was growing too close for comfort.

She’d been at the Perth tournament, of course. But it had never occurred to him she might be acquainted with his family. He’d certainly never heard of her.

Was it true she’d only overheard the gossip of others? Or did she have some personal connection to his clan? He needed to find out. Somehow he needed to pry into her past without sharing his own.

The morn was more than half gone when Adam heard the burbling rush of water, indicating a burn close to the road.

“Shall we stop for a bit?” he said, breaking the silence.

She nodded.

They descended the bank to a place where the stream hurried over rocks and then slowed and narrowed and deepened. He wasted no time, crouching streamside and scooping up handfuls of refreshing, cold water to wash the dust from his face.

Aillenn cautiously washed her hands. Then she dipped a small scrap of linen from her satchel into the water and wrung it out. She patted her neck and face with exaggerated care, as if she feared she might dislodge a freckle.

Meanwhile, Adam spread a linen cloth on the ground and began pulling out the provender he always carried. A chunk of hard cheese. A sack of oats. Strips of salted beef. Dried apples.

She too dug in her satchel for foodstuffs to add to the offering. She had hard cheese and a sack of oats as well. A crock of butter. A neep. An onion. And a loaf of bread she must have procured this morn.

“Well, at least we won’t starve,” she said. “Too bad we don’t have a cauldron. We might make a decent pottage.”

“If ye wanted pottage, ye should have told me,” he said, stifling a grin. “I could have butchered the pair o’ hares we saw back—”

He hadn’t even finished the sentence when she gave his arm a chiding punch.

He cried out, gripping the injured limb with feigned pain.

“A gentleman,” she muttered, “wouldn’t have brought that up.”

“I ne’er said I was a gentleman.”

“Ye’re wearin’ the garb of a gentleman.”

“Guilty,” he said, clapping his hand to his chest. “In future, m’lady, I shall try to remain true to my disguise.”

She knelt gracefully on the linen and tore off a chunk of bread, slathering it with butter and offering it to him.

He sat cross-legged, unwrapped the cheese, and used his dagger to slice two thick slabs. He gave her one of them and added a dried apple.

No one spoke. They were too busy feasting. He was hungrier than he thought. He ate half of the salted beef and the last hunk of bread.

“We’ll have to replenish our supplies soon, aye?” she said after they were finished, licking a crumb off her thumb.

That innocent gesture—the coy lowering of her lashes, the parting of her lips, the glimpse of her tongue—sent a bolt of desire through him. For an instant, he couldn’t think.

Then, quickly replaying her question in his mind, he replied, “Aye, supplies, though we should get enough off o’ Pitcairn tonight to last a day or two.”

“Pitcairn?”

He instantly realized his blunder. He should never have named the clan at whose keep he planned to seek lodging. The less she knew about his acquaintances, the better. So he feigned uncertainty.

“Is that his name? Pitcairn? Pitfield? Somethin’ like that. I o’erheard a traveler speakin’ of a noble o’ that name with a place south o’ Dunnin’. Do ye know him?”

She shook her head.

That was fortunate. It would be challenging enough for a Rivenloch to sneak in under Pitcairn’s nose, disguised as an Irish noble. If she didn’t know the man, Adam could count on his beautiful Irish “sister” as a distraction.

She was distracting. As she packed up what little food remained, he couldn’t help but steal glances at her vibrant skin, her lightly freckled face, her finely arched brows, her sweet bow of a mouth.

He wondered if all Irish noblewomen were so lovely.

Then he lowered his gaze, and his brow creased as he glimpsed her worn nails.

Curious, he reached out for her wrist.

Startled, she gasped.

Turning her hand palm up, he frowned. “These aren’t the hands of a noblewoman.”

Eve had to think fast. No one had ever studied her closely enough to discern that fact. They were usually too distracted by her coy looks and honeyed words to pay any heed to her calluses.

She grew instantly indignant, snatching her hand back.

“I’ve had to make my way as best I can on my own,” she said defensively, adding a note of hurt to her voice. “If my beauty has been dimmed by my efforts to survive, it cannot be helped. ’Tis a price worth payin’ for my freedom.”

Her ploy seemed to work.

“I apologize,” he said, looking sincerely contrite. “I’m a fool. And ye… Nothin’ could dim your beauty, m’lady.”

His words took her breath away. Flustered and blushing, she stood and busied herself with the satchel, rearranging things that didn’t need to be rearranged, while she tried to regain her composure.

“I should have realized ye were a true noblewoman,” he said, coming to his feet. He shook the stray leaves from the linen square and tucked it back into his satchel. “How else would ye know the Rivenlochs?”

Another bolt of alarm shot through her. She didn’t dare meet his eyes. “Aye. Right.”

“So ye do know the Rivenlochs?”

“Me?” she squeaked. “Nay, not personally.” She licked her lips and hefted up the satchel, staggering back a step under its weight.

He reached out to steady her.

She danced back out of his reach, trying desperately to recall what she’d said before about the Rivenlochs. “I’ve only heard tell o’ the clan.”

“All the way in Ireland?”

“Aye?” she said, wondering if that could even be true. After all, no one in Scotland seemed to know any of the Irish nobles. If they had, they certainly wouldn’t recall the Bhallach clan, which was a creation of her own. “They’ve got quite a reputation.”

“Is that so?”

His eyes twinkled then with a curious sort of triumph. He knew something. Or he’d tripped her up. But how?

Suddenly she remembered. Shite. She’d told him she’d heard about the Rivenlochs at Perth. Not in Ireland. She took another evasive step backward.

“Careful,” he said with a chiding smile, curving one arm around her waist.

Eve bristled. She hated to be outwitted, especially by a man who found amusement at her expense. And she’d always had a problem with authority. Careful, indeed. She backed out of his embrace. “Don’t tell me what to—”

“M’lady!” he shouted, reaching for her again.

Incensed, she shoved her satchel between them and took another step back. Her heel caught on uneven ground, and she began to fall backward. When she tried to catch herself on her other foot, her boot slipped on wet, mossy rock.

Adam loomed in front of her. His eyes were wide. His brow was determined.

With haphazard grace, he snagged a fistful of her gown and catapulted her aside with brute strength.

She was tossed onto the grass on her hands and knees.

He was not so lucky.

She heard a great splash behind her. Apparently, the force required to save her from falling into the water had propelled him into the burn in her stead.

She turned in horror to see him rising from the stream like a disgruntled Neptune.

“Why did ye not heed my warnin’?” he sputtered, finding his footing.

He took off his velvet cap and squeezed the water from it.

As he slogged forward in his drenched clothes, she began to see the humor of the situation. She fell back onto her bottom, stifling her laughter as she regarded him over her knees.

“Oh, ye think ’tis amusin’, do ye?” he asked.

She did find it amusing. He’d gone to such efforts to preserve her balance that he’d utterly upset his own. Now he looked like a peevish cat retrieved from a well.

Still, she was grateful. If she’d stumbled into the burn, she would have ruined her best gown.

It was a noble sacrifice on his part. She was about to tell him that when he tossed his cap onto the bank and hauled his wet surcoat off over his head.

He wrung it out as he waded toward the shore, finally draping it over the limb of a streamside rowan.

He might as well have removed his leine, for all the modesty it afforded him. Soaking wet, the knee-length transparent linen clung to every sculpted muscle, leaving little to her imagination.

He pulled off his boots, holding them upside down to drain out the water before setting them down on a mossy rock. Then, with no regard for propriety, he reached under his leine and began to unfasten his trews.

She meant to tear her gaze away. Sister Eve knew it was improper to look upon a man in a state of undress.

But Lady Aillenn was fascinated by his boldness—and the muscular thighs he revealed as he peeled off the trews. So entranced was she, she couldn’t remember what she’d intended to say to him.

He plucked the leine away from his body, rippling it to try to dry the linen.

“This may add an hour to our journey,” he warned. “I can’t very well show up lookin’ like a wet selkie.”

She nodded, though she thought if he were a selkie, she would have gladly followed the fae creature into the water to drown. He was compelling and irresistible, even when the power of his gaze was diminished by strings of dark, dripping hair covering his face.

He strode near. For a moment, huddled on the ground, she froze. Another step, and she’d be able to see whether he was wearing braies beneath his leine.