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She was supposed to say something philosophical, like “’twas God’s will” or “he’s in the Lord’s hands now.” But she didn’t have the heart to cheapen the woman’s grief with words that felt empty and inadequate to her pain.

Instead, Eve wrapped an arm around the woman and let her weep upon her shoulder.

Adam, closing the door for their privacy, began packing up the satchels.

After a while, the woman ceased crying enough to whimper, “The poor wee bairn didn’t even have a name. He was ne’er baptized. He’ll not be goin’ to heaven.”

“Aye, he will. I baptized him e’er he died with the water ye warmed.” She mustered a weak smile of reassurance. “I hope ye like the name Nael. It means ‘gift o’ God.’”

“Nael,” the woman repeated, holding the bairn close against her breast. Then she nodded in approval as a tear trickled down her cheek and onto the infant’s swaddling.

After making sure the woman could manage until Finlay returned, Eve and Adam departed in respectful silence. But as they rode along southward path for Strivelin, lost in their sorrow, they couldn’t seem to find a way to break that silence. So it continued all morn.

The thoughts in Eve’s head, however, clamored like warning bells, punishing her with insistent clanging. Telling her she had lost her way. Saying she was wicked. Wanton. Sinful.

That was the reason God had let the bairn die.

Last night, in one moment of weakness, Eve had fallen from grace. A nun. She’d let herself be tempted by carnal pleasures. Reveled in the garden of the Devil. Like the woman for whom she’d been named, Eve had tasted the forbidden fruit.

It had felt miraculous at the time. A perfect union of souls. A transcendence of body and spirit that felt like something holy. She’d been so convinced it was God’s will.

But now she knew better. And His retribution had been swift and brutal.

It had been made much worse by the knowledge that His wrath had hurt not only Eve. It had devastated a woman who didn’t deserve such pain. And killed a guileless bairn who hadn’t lived long enough to even understand sin.

She had no words for the remorse she felt. And so she continued to ride, weeping quietly, endlessly, not daring to speak, until hours later they crossed the wooden bridge over the River Forth at Strivelin.

Adam was the first to break the silence. Departing the bridge, he rode up even with her.

“’Twasn’t your fault, ye know,” he murmured. “Ye mustn’t blame yourself. Infants are…fragile.”

Eve knew what he was trying to do. But in this circumstance, he was wrong. She was to blame.

She couldn’t tell him why. She didn’t want him to think he was responsible in any way for her lapse of morality.

After all, he didn’t know she was a nun. And a virgin. None of it was his fault. Making love had been her idea. She’d asked him to couple with her. Practically begged him.

She couldn’t say any of that.

So instead she said, “I know.”

“I doubt even a master surgeon could have saved the lad.”

She sighed. Perhaps not.

But her prayers could have. If God had deigned to listen.

Of course, He had not. Why would He listen to the supplications of a fallen nun?

“Perhaps the child was too good for this world,” Adam said by way of comfort.

She nodded. It was kind of him to say so.

“At least he is with God now,” he added. “’Twas thoughtful o’ ye to baptize him.”

She stiffened. She’d halfway hoped he hadn’t noticed. She’d done it out of habit. It sometimes fell to a nun to bless an infant. And a midwife might baptize a newborn they feared was going to die. But it must seem strange to him for an Irish noblewoman to go to the trouble.

She shrugged. “’Twas the least I could do.” Then, in a hurry to change the subject, she said, “Do ye know of an inn in Strivelin?”

She’d stayed in Strivelin before at an inn called The Swan. But for what she planned, she needed to find a place where they didn’t know her. Where she could slip in unnoticed and escape without a trace.

“The Red Lion?” he suggested. “They have a chamber with a goose-down pallet.”

Eve’s heart sank. He was so full of hope. So full of affection for her.

But soon she was going to have to deny him. Deny herself.

She couldn’t reveal her sorrow now. So she pasted on a fake smile and urged her horse forward before he could glimpse the pain in her face. Pain that stung and filled her eyes to overflowing with tears of regret.

Dear God, how could she leave him?

How could she live without him?

How could she ever be happy again?

By the time they arrived at The Red Lion and let a lad lead their horses to the stable, Eve was only half-feigning the headache she claimed to have.

“Would ye see to the room?” she asked Adam, rubbing her temples. “My head is achin’ somethin’ fierce.”

“O’ course. Go on upstairs to the first chamber. I’ll pay the innkeeper and bring up the satchels.”

She drew her cloak around her and pulled her cowl up over her head. Entering the main room, she crossed directly to the stairs, passing invisibly through the benches of travelers hunched over their pottage. She rushed up the steps and closed herself behind the door.

Glancing at the generous bed draped in blue cotton, she felt a twinge of melancholy. The mattress probably was goose-down. But she’d never know, for she meant to sleep where all penitents belonged, on the floor.

Adam considered it a travesty for Aillenn to sleep on the ground when there was a perfectly good pallet—a goose-down pallet—a few yards away.

She’d claimed that being near the warm fire helped her headache. He wasn’t sure he believed that.

Perhaps her grief over the bairn was still too sharp for her to be consoled by the comfort of a warm bed.

He offered to sacrifice his comfort for her, to sleep beside her on the floor. But she shook her head.

Something else was wrong. Something was troubling her. Ever since the infant’s death, she’d distanced herself from Adam, hardly speaking, and then only in frosty tones.

Almost as if she thought it was his fault.

Trying to understand the workings of her complicated mind kept him awake, staring up at the brass medallion in the middle of the canopy, while he listened to her drawing in the calm breath of slumber.

When he finally surrendered and dozed off, it was into a heavy sleep.

So heavy he didn’t wake until dawn.

So heavy he never heard her leave.

When he saw the empty place by the hearth, he roused as if he’d been slapped awake.

Where was she?

He sprang up, running frantic fingers through his hair and blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Had she left him?

It was a mad thought. She didn’t belong to him, after all. Yet the feeling persisted.

Where had she gone?

He tried to calm himself as he dressed in haste. But his heart pounded as if he’d been called to battle. He shoved his arms through his surcoat and buckled his belt with shaking fingers.

Then, as he pulled on his boots, his eye caught on something slouched against the hearth. It was Aillenn’s satchel.

Relief hissed out of his lungs. He’d been a panicking fool.

She wouldn’t have left without her satchel.

Perhaps she’d only gone to the privy.

Or maybe she was downstairs, breaking her fast.

Catching his breath and trying to smooth his hair and his nerves into some semblance of order, he snatched open the door and resisted the urge to careen down the stairs.

Though he scoured the inn from top to bottom, upstairs and down, Aillenn was nowhere to be found.

The innkeeper knew nothing. And the lodgers gathered before the fire, who hadn’t seen the young lady, were only growing more curious and suspicious of him as he continued his relentless questioning.

His pulse began to throb again.

Could she have been abducted? That might explain why she’d left her satchel behind.

But how could that happen under his watchful…

That was just it. He hadn’t been watchful. He’d fallen into a deep sleep, not even noticing when she went missing.

Cursing himself for a fool, he returned to the bedchamber.

Time was wasting. He had no idea how long she’d been gone, or even in what direction she was headed. But he’d pursue her to the ends of the earth, if need be.

Shouldering her satchel, he perused the room for his.

It was gone.

Eve set out from The Red Lion on foot in the dim light before dawn, shivering.

Not from fear. Traveling alone was almost always safe in a nun’s habit.

Not from cold either. The wool was heavy and warm.

She shivered from the burden of what she was doing.

She’d made a difficult choice, and she still wasn’t sure it was the right one.

Prithee do not follow me ~ Lady Aillenn

That’s what the missive she’d left for him said.

She felt she owed him more of an explanation than that. But she couldn’t say more without revealing her identity. And she needed to make a clean break of it. To forget him if she could.

Her heart was heavy as she plodded along the path.

It had seemed so clear yesterday—as she held the wee bairn in her arms and felt his precious life slip away—that she was being punished.

God had shown her the cost of violating her vows.

It could be nothing else. She’d sinned, and the price of her sin was a life.

Now that life would be her cross to bear.

She should have felt the satisfaction of penance today. She had prayed this morn, renewed her vows, and asked for absolution. Now she’d removed herself from temptation. She planned to return to the convent straightaway to devote herself with new vigor to the church.

Why then did she still feel so uncertain of her decision?

Because being in Adam’s arms made her feel like she was in the embrace of an angel. Kissing him had been tasting ambrosia. Touching him, flesh to flesh, had made her spirit sing. Coupling with him, she’d soared to heaven and seen the face of God.

How could such a stirring act of love and devotion not be God’s will?

It had felt like a miracle. Now she understood why the abbess spoke against it so vehemently as a distraction from one’s Holy Purpose.