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But then he reached out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her upright.

“We should find a sunny spot to dry these,” he said, collecting his boots and cap and surcoat.

She looked away then to pick up her satchel.

Finally finding her wits, she said, “Thank ye.”

“For what?”

A wicked answer flew into her head. For letting me feast my eyes upon your body.

But that wouldn’t do.

Instead she replied, “For savin’ me.”

He gave her a dramatic sweep of a bow. “O’ course.” Then he winked. “Anythin’ for my sister.”

She could not have felt less like his sister. Nonetheless, she gave him a nod of gratitude before they embarked on their search for sunlight.

He found a glade not far from the road with a hawthorn where he could hang his wet clothing to dry and a fallen, mossy log where they could sit in reasonable comfort.

“So tell me about your search for a husband,” he bid her.

“Oh, I’m not searchin’ for a husband.”

He smiled. “I suppose a lady as lovely as ye doesn’t need to search for a husband.”

Lovely. He’d called her lovely.

“Nay,” she said, blushing. “I mean I’m not…that is…” What did she mean? Sister Eve wasn’t searching for a husband. But Lady Aillenn surely must wish to have children one day. “I suppose I’m…in no hurry.”

“Ah. I imagine findin’ just the right short, pale, fair-haired, soft-around-the-edges, agreeable gentleman may take a while.”

She grinned. He’d remembered her silly description.

“And o’ course,” he continued, “’twould be hard to give up the thrill of our profession.”

The thrill. She’d never thought of it that way. She’d always considered her disguises simply a necessity for doing God’s work.

But he was right. It was thrilling, slipping into the identity of another person, altering her carriage and her speech. Fooling observers. Carrying off risky plots.

“I suppose if ye were to marry,” he said, “’twould be the end o’ your adventures.”

She’d never had to consider that. After all, she was a nun. She’d already come to terms with not becoming a wife or mother.

“I suppose,” she said. “But what about ye? Would ye give up your life o’ deception for a bride?”

“’Tis the only skill I have,” he admitted. “So unless I find a rich heiress to wed…”

“Perhaps Ronan can find himself a rich heiress.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps.”

“But certainly ye have other skills,” she said. “I saw ye in the melee. Ye can handle a blade. And ye chased off the thieves. Ye could work for the king as a man-at-arms.”

“A man-at-arms?” He stroked his chin, as if considering the notion. But there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes that told her he found the idea amusing.

“Or perhaps ye could take your vows,” she suggested. “That way ye’d live a life o’ chastity and be relieved o’ the burden o’ findin’ a wife.”

She half expected he’d react to that idea with distaste, indicating he wasn’t a man of the church. That would help narrow down his true identity.

Instead he answered with a noncommittal, “True.”

Still hoping to unmask him, she asked, “What other disguises have ye donned?”

He gave her a sly glance. “I’ll tell if ye will.”

“Fine.” She supposed it would do no harm. Besides, there was something exciting about being able to share her life’s passion. “I sometimes dress as a milkmaid named Maggie Gall.”

“Maggie the milkmaid? To what end?”

“For the milk, o’ course.”

He grinned. “O’ course.”

“And sometimes I hear a bit o’ useful tattle about a household.”

“What kind o’ useful tattle?”

“Who’s ill. Who’s soused. Who’s stealin’ from the kitchens. Who’s sneakin’ off in the middle o’ the night.”

“So ye’re employed as a spy?”

“Nay.”

“Then why do ye do it?”

She shrugged. “To right wrongs.”

“Hmm.”

“Your turn.”

“Let’s see… I once posed as the mystic Hildegard o’ Bingen.”

She gasped. “What?”

His brows shot up. “Ye’ve heard o’ her?”

She realized he’d startled another piece of information out of her—that she was knowledgeable. Of course she’d heard of Hildegard of Bingen. Among the educated, Hildegard was a renowned abbess, a visionary versed in natural philosophy, medicine, writing, and music.

“Everyone has heard o’ Hildegard o’ Bingen. But how…?” She couldn’t imagine Adam disguising himself as a woman, especially such a famous woman.

“Everyone has heard o’ her,” he said. “But has anyone seen her?”

He had a point. If he comported himself with enough confidence, she supposed he could fool anyone into believing he was the elusive abbess. That was how he’d convinced everyone he was the emissary of the Pope. Still…

“Ye can’t pass for a woman,” she decided.

“I can. And have. Granted, my Hildegard is a rather large woman with a husky voice, but…”

That made her laugh. This she had to hear. “Do the voice.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

He cleared his throat, then spoke in a ragged voice with a thick German accent. “Zere is ze music uff heav’n in all tings.”

Her eyes widened. Adam did sound like a wizened woman.

She skewered him with a glittering gaze that was half admiration, half scolding. “Ye know ye’re wicked, feignin’ to be Hildegard. Why would ye do such a thing?”

“To gain access to a library. My cousin needed a copy o’ Aristotle’s treatise on Physics.”

“So ye stole it?”

“Not exactly. The laird was delighted to give it to Hildegard.”

She shook her head in wonder.

“Besides,” he added, “that tome was covered in dust. I’m not certain it had e’er been read.”

Still, such an audacious undertaking was unthinkable to Eve.

“Your turn,” he said.

“I’m afraid I’m not so bold as ye.”

“I’d say a pilgrim with a mule-hair beard confrontin’ the Prior o’ Scone is fairly bold.”

She had to smile at that. “That was a wee bit risky.”

“So tell me about Jehan o’ Rouen.”

“Who?”

He chided her with a look. “I know ’twas ye. I saw the green hood in your satchel.”

She sighed. She supposed there was no point in hiding it anymore. Even if he did know about Jehan, there was still much he didn’t know about her. Including her real name and profession.

“Jehan is the oldest o’ ten. His da died last year, so he goes from tourney to tourney, earnin’ coin to support his brothers and sisters in Rouen.”

“I see. And I suppose these brothers and sisters have names?”

“O’ course.” Eve was nothing if not thorough. “Alain, Beatriz, Caterine, Denis, Elaine, Florie, Guillaume, Heloise, and Isabeau.”

His eyes were dancing with amusement and, perhaps, admiration. “And how did Jehan perfect his skills with a bow?”

“Huntin’ hare in the forest. Indeed, he had to flee Rouen, bein’ wanted as a poacher.”

Adam’s laughter rolled over her like a warm breeze and did something curious to her heart. It had been a long while since she’d heard such a carefree sound. She thought she could sit here forever, swapping tales with her fellow impostor.

“Now ye,” she said.

“Have ye heard o’ Godefroid de Claire?”

She had. The abbess at her convent had seen some of the artist’s reliquaries on her travels. But Eve didn’t want to reveal too much, so she shook her head.

“He’s a jeweler. He makes enamels and reliquaries.”

“And ye’ve posed as this jeweler?”

“Aye.”

“Do ye know how to make jewelry then?”

“Nay. But it didn’t get that far.”

She lifted a brow for him to continue. “Tell me everythin’.”

“My younger brother was leavin’ an alehouse late at night when he tripped o’er the alewife’s cat and landed in the lap of a drunken nobleman,” he said vaguely.

“The man, furious at bein’ accosted, challenged my brother to combat the followin’ day.

He couldn’t see my brother was too young for battle, and the proud lad wouldn’t refuse the challenge. ”

She clasped a hand to her breast.

“So I ordered him to stay at home. Early the next morn, Godefroid de Claire,” he said with a wink, “made a visit to the nobleman. Godefroid pulled out a quill and parchment and told the man that as a gesture o’ thanks for his loyalty, the king had commissioned an enamel to be made in his honor.

The nobleman was delighted. Naturally, drawin’ up the design for the piece took most o’ the day. ”

“Naturally.”

“By the time Godefroid left, the man had completely forgotten about the battle.”

“And the enamel?”

“The nobleman’s friends agreed the man must have drunk himself into a stupor to imagine the esteemed artist Godefroid de Claire would make an enamel for him.”

It was Eve’s turn to laugh. Who was this hero in disguise who risked life and limb for his family? She desperately wanted to know.

She suddenly asked him, “Have ye e’er been unmasked?”

“Me? Nay. Ye?”

She thought about the time Hew du Lac of Rivenloch had tried to court her. “Not exactly, but ’twas close.”

“What happened?”

“Someone fell in love with me,” she recalled, gazing out at the sunny meadow. “He didn’t realize I was—” She broke off. She’d almost said a nun. “I wasn’t who I said I was.”

“And who was that?”

She had to think fast. “A…a courtesan.”

Shite. Why had she said that? She had on occasion disguised herself as a woman of easy virtue simply for access to men’s secrets.

But she’d never indulged in any immoral activity.

When Hew confessed his love, she’d been dressed just like this, as Lady Aillenn.

In the end, she’d taken pity on his bruised heart and admitted to being a nun.

She glanced at Adam. Suspicion was etched on his brow.

“I’m not, o’ course, ” she said, reading his thoughts. “I’m not a courtesan. I told ye, I’ve ne’er e’en kissed…”

She hadn’t told him that, though. She’d almost told him that.

“I knew it,” he said in triumph. “I knew I was your first.”

She blushed, more from the indignity of having trapped herself with her own words than his smug delight at being her first kiss.

Then he leaned in to murmur, “If it makes ye feel better, ’twas my first as well.”

“Nay. Is that true?”

“Aye. I’ve ne’er kissed a bearded pilgrim before in my—”

She gave him a hard shove that almost pushed him off the end of the log, as he deserved. But the sight of his eyes widening in panic was so comical that she couldn’t help but break into giggles.