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Adam hadn’t meant to blurt the word out like that. He hadn’t meant to say it at all. They’d agreed he would pretend to be Aillenn’s brother.

But when he saw the way Pitcairn was looking at the lass, as if he planned to feast on her for supper, he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t about to leave her to the wolf. And he figured claiming her as his own was the best way to protect her.

Aillenn clearly didn’t approve of that decision. She shot him such a look of horrified outrage that he almost recoiled from the impact.

He knew how she felt. It was aggravating as hell to have an accomplice destroy your best laid plans. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Flexibility. Improvisation. Now that he’d made that bold introduction, she’d have to follow his lead.

He dropped the satchels, stepped forward and offered his hand. “M’laird.”

Pitcairn looked as if he’d like to refuse it.

But though he was a bit of a knave with the ladies, he was obliged to follow the code of chivalry.

Noblemen were expected to be civil to one another.

He flashed Adam a quick smirk and briefly squeezed his hand, then didn’t give him a second glance.

Which was good. If he’d studied Adam as thoroughly as he’d done the lass, he’d surely have recognized him as the warrior of Rivenloch he’d met before.

The laird was probably wondering how long they intended to stay and regretting his carelessly generous offer. Adam decided to ease the man’s fears.

“’Twill only be for the night,” he said.

Aillenn smiled in agreement. Then, apparently deciding they didn’t look enough like a couple, the saucy lass linked her arm through Adam’s and gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Adoring eyes with just a gleam of vengeful mischief.

She was going to be trouble. He could see that.

The trouble began the moment Tilda showed them to the rose chamber.

A very large, conspicuous bed curtained in rich red velvet monopolized the room.

A linen-lined wooden tub sat on a dais in one corner.

Two chairs, their cushions embroidered with red blossoms, flanked the tub, as if set there to observe bathers.

The white plaster walls were painted with green twining stems and red roses, broken only where the hearth guarded a low-burning fire.

Against one wall stood a small table topped by a basin and pitcher, a mirror, a comb, linens, and vials of assorted oils.

“What a lovely chamber,” Aillenn exclaimed.

Adam frowned. It was clearly the room Pitcairn used to entertain his mistresses.

“Would m’lady like a warm bath after supper?” Tilda offered.

“That would be delightful,” Aillenn gushed.

Adam frowned. That would not be delightful. It would be dangerous.

“Isn’t that a kind offer, Ronan?” Aillenn said with a bright smile.

“Kind. Aye.”

Tilda continued. “There’s enough fuel for the fire to last the night, and I think ye’ll find the bed comfortable.” She gave Aillenn a wink. “’Tis goose-down.”

“Lovely.”

“I’ll send a maid up to fetch ye for supper,” Tilda said. “Meanwhile, if there’s anythin’ ye need, m’lady, m’laird, I’m a whistle away.”

The instant Tilda bobbed her head and closed the door, Aillenn whirled toward Adam. Her smile vanished. She frowned and poked him in the chest.

“Why did ye tell him that?” she hissed. “Why did ye say we were married?”

“I…panicked,” Adam lied.

“Ye? The man who feigned to be the emissary o’ the Pope?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe that. So why then?”

He curled his lip, rubbing at the spot where she’d poked him. “’Twas an accident.”

She arched a dubious brow. “An accident is fallin’ into the burn. Ye announced it like ye were the town crier.”

Damn. Could he hide nothing from the lass?

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I didn’t like the way Pitcairn was lookin’ at ye.”

“What do ye mean?”

He scowled, waving his arms in disgust. “Did ye not see? He was lickin’ his lips like ye were his next meal.

His eyes all full o’ hunger. His droolin’ chin on the floor.

His trews swellin’ up like—” He stopped as he saw Aillenn begin to blush, wishing he could stuff the words back into his mouth.

Then he lowered his arms and sighed. “I only meant to protect ye from unwanted advances.”

“I know how to thwart unwanted advances.”

“Do ye?” he accused, unreasonably vexed. “Because the man didn’t seem to be the least bit thwarted.”

“Why should ye care?”

“Because I…”

He hesitated, staring into her inquisitive eyes. Eyes that shone like dark pools in moonlight. Eyes full of kindness and strength, wit and wisdom.

What? Love you? Want you for myself? Can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you? Holding you? Pressing their lips to…

“I told ye,” he decided gruffly, averting his gaze. “I’m a protector.”

She sighed. “I understand. Truly I do.” She moved forward, taking his right hand between her own and speaking earnestly. “But I swear to ye, Adam, I don’t need protectin’. I’ve been on my own for a while now. I can protect myself. Ye have to trust me.”

He’d held his breath from the moment she’d taken his hand. Her skin was soft, warm, comforting. And the way she was gazing at him now—with sympathy and reassurance—made his heart flicker with affection.

“Besides,” she added with an enigmatic smile, patting the back of his hand before releasing him, “how do ye know his advances were unwanted?”

Her offhand remark hit him like the blow of Brand’s lance, straight in the gut.

Was she attracted to Pitcairn? She’d said she wished to secure a husband before her father could drag her back to Ireland. Did she think Laird Pitcairn might be that husband?

It was troubling.

Pitcairn might be handsome. Rich. Young.

But the laird had a reputation for philandering. A sharp tongue with servants. And a reckless love of gambling.

He was completely wrong for Aillenn.

“’Tisn’t true, is it?” he asked her. “Ye don’t have feelin’s for Pitcairn?”

She shrugged and turned away from him. “What does it matter now? Ye’ve already told him ye’re my husband.”

Eve smiled a secret smile as she sauntered toward the table and poured water from the pitcher into the basin.

Adam was jealous. He might be a master of disguise. But when it came to his emotions, he was as transparent as glass.

She soaked a linen rag and began dabbing at her face and neck.

Why his jealousy pleased her, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was because it felt like it gave her the upper hand. Like she was in control. Even if her heart wasn’t so sure of that.

Whatever the reason, it also gave her a wee thrill to know her flirtations with another—even if they were feigned—bothered him. It meant that he might have feelings for her.

It was a foolish hope, she knew. Utterly ridiculous. Completely inappropriate. What good were such feelings when she was a nun?

While she mused in silence, wiping away the dust of the road, she heard the crackle of peat as Adam stirred the fire behind her.

“I’ll take the floor here,” he murmured.

“What?” She whirled to face him.

“The floor. I’ll sleep beside the fire.”

“Absolutely not,” she decided. “The lodgin’ was your discovery. Ye should take the bed.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not goin’ to sleep on a goose-down pallet while an Irish princess beds down on the floor.”

His offer was kind. But it offended her nun’s sense of charity, humility, and fairness.

“I can’t possibly accept your offer,” she said. “Ye protected me from outlaws. Managed to procure us horses and lodgin’ for the night. Sacrificed yourself so I wouldn’t fall into the burn.” She shook her head. “A soft, warm bed to sleep in is the least I can give ye to show my gratitude.”

What she really wanted to give him was a soft, warm bed with her in it.

But that was only her wayward thoughts racing astray like a runaway steed.

Besides, she noted he’d carefully omitted the option of sharing the bed.

To a man who claimed his chief duty was protection, she supposed such an arrangement was unthinkable.

He grunted in dissatisfaction over her decree and gave the flickering peat on the hearth one last prod before coming to his feet.

“Ye’re a stubborn lass, aren’t ye?”

“Me?” She didn’t think she was stubborn. She merely stood her ground when she knew she was right.

An amused smile blossomed on his face, taking her breath away. “I’ve heard there’s nothin’ more stubborn than an Irish lass.”

That might be. But she was no Irish lass. “I’ve heard the same said o’ Scotsmen.”

“Then I suppose we’ll find out who’s the—”

There was a knock on the door. “M’lady, m’lord,” a maid called out, “I’m here to take ye to supper.”

Eve gasped and whispered, “Already?” They were hardly prepared to play husband and wife.

“Good, I’m starvin’,” Adam murmured. To the maid he said, “We’ll be right out.”

He grabbed the wet rag she’d used, rubbing it quickly over his face.

But Eve’s heart raced. “There’s no time to get our new story straight.”

He shrugged and gave his hands a quick scrub as well. “We’ll have to make one up as we go.”

That was easy for him to say. He seemed to thrive on living dangerously. Making last-minute decisions. Taking risks without batting an eye.

Eve preferred to think things out carefully. To plan. To pay attention to detail. To create a seamless character with a complete history and live in their skin for a while.

It wasn’t that she never had to improvise. Sometimes she had to rely on her wits to correct course if she got into trouble.

That worked when you were steering the steed on your own.

When another person didn’t have to follow your lead and remember the route.

But Adam had a mind of his own. He might well seize the reins and steer her in a direction she didn’t want to go.

Like calling himself her husband when he was supposed to be her brother.

“M’lady,” Adam said, offering his arm.

Like that. Already he was doing it. Taking the lead.