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She supposed it was blasphemy to think such a thing. But why would God create such a transcendent experience if only to forbid his most devoted servants from enjoying it?

It was that question that haunted her dreams all night long and prodded her awake before dawn.

She’d meant to leave early anyway, before her fellow soldiers could discover the young mercenary Sir Peredur wasn’t all he appeared to be.

She stole out of the armory, picking her way around the dozing warriors, and crept quietly through the great hall.

The servants were already awake. They shuttled about, stoking the fire, raking the rushes, and feeding the hounds.

They were too busy to take note of the young warrior with a big satchel and oversized armor creeping across the hall.

The scent of fresh-baked oatcakes made Eve’s mouth water.

She drew herself up like a brash youth and caught the arm of a passing maidservant. Then she growled out, “Bring me a pair o’ buttered oatcakes, will ye, lass?”

The maidservant nodded. “Would ye like ale as well, sir?”

“Aye.”

The maid bobbed again and left at once to fetch her breakfast.

Eve sighed at the sad truth. As Sister Eve or Lady Aillenn, she never would have earned such hasty service. But as soon as Eve put on trews and a coat of mail, every maid hopped to do her bidding.

This time it was worth employing the male advantage. The oatcakes were delicious, and the warm butter reminded Eve of the humble pleasures of the convent.

She told herself she was looking forward to her return.

After all, there was a simplicity to a nun’s life, an order that was always comforting to Eve after she’d had one of her wild adventures.

Without her satchel of costumes, she’d be unable to engage in such enterprises anyway, at least until her father sent more coin.

But that was probably for the best if she wanted to work on her piety.

Laboring as the convent’s dairy maid was one of her favorite pastimes.

There was something both peaceful and magical about turning fresh milk into cream and butter, curds and whey.

She particularly enjoyed getting her hands in the bowl, working her fingers through the warm milk until it slowly thickened into soft, creamy butter.

It felt to Eve like she was imbuing the butter with her essence, her joy, her love.

She popped the last piece of oatcake into her mouth and licked her fingers. She wondered who had imbued this butter with their love.

Finishing off her ale, she slipped out the entrance of the great hall, skirted the keep, and headed toward the main gate.

She’d reach her home in Mauchline before Vespers. One more day’s journey, and she’d be safe behind convent walls. There, protected from the object of her carnal temptation, she’d have plenty of time to pray, reflect, and mull over the moral questions that lingered in her soul.

In time, she was sure her longing would fade.

In time, she might even forget the charming pretender.

So she vowed as she set out on the southern road. But her quivering chin and the forest blurring in her vision did not agree.

Adam’s hands had never felt so soft. Of course, that was why dairy maids were notoriously desirable mistresses. Kneading milk into butter made their skin creamy and supple. Still, no matter how soft his hands were, no one would have made the mistake of inviting Gunnhild the Dairy Maid to their bed.

Gunnhild was oversized and ugly, with a great wart upon her nose, wrinkled skin, a hairy chin, a raspy voice, and an enormous wool gown that resembled a knight’s pavilion.

She had clean hands, however, and that was all that mattered to the overworked cook at Rowallan Castle whose dairy maid had taken ill the previous night. So Gunnhild was immediately put to work, preparing bowls of butter for the morn’s oatcakes.

It wasn’t an unpleasant task. It was almost magical, the way the milk could be transformed. And being close to the great hall allowed Adam to monitor the activities of the castle denizens.

He’d still seen no sign of Aillenn. He’d been so certain when he’d arrived last night that she must be here.

There weren’t many options for lodging nearby.

No monasteries. No convents. No inns. Rowallan Castle was the obvious choice.

It was also populated enough that anyone could slip in easily unnoticed.

As Adam had. He’d wrapped himself in a few plaids from Aillenn’s satchel, covered his head with a makeshift wimple and veil, applied raw egg to his face to create wrinkles, and affixed a wart made out of a mushroom to his nose. Thus he’d become Gunnhild.

What Gunnhild’s special talents were, he hadn’t decided until he heard the cook complaining about a dairy maid that had taken ill. Gaining the cook’s confidence was a matter of simply volunteering to fulfill her duties.

Between batches of butter, he was able to make several observations of the castle denizens.

After breakfast, he ranged the keep, searching every face for the one that haunted him.

At midday, he slipped out of the castle in a crowd of merchants to scour the woods and the nearby village.

In the end, Adam had to give up. He rinsed the egg from his face and plucked the wart from his nose. He changed back into his lordly attire. Then, discouraged, he set out on the southbound road.

By dusk, Adam was forced to admit he’d lost his quarry. It had been three days with no sign of her. By now she could be anywhere.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, no one had ever been able to track Adam either . And unfortunately, the vixen had as much talent for subterfuge as he did.

He didn’t intend to give up. Ever. The woman had betrayed his trust, and he needed some kind of retribution for that. Even if it was only the return of his things.

But for now he had to change his priorities. He had to be about the king’s business. How soon Malcolm would attack Fergus, he didn’t know. He needed to be prepared.

Still, wherever he went and whatever he did, he’d remain vigilant.

He’d look for Aillenn in every face. Study every nun, every archer, every noblewoman, every servant who crossed his path.

Keep his ears alert to every murmur, every laugh, every sigh he heard.

He had her scent now, deep in his lungs and his soul.

If and when she crossed his path, he’d know.

Lady Aillenn—whoever she really was—might think she’d escaped unscathed. But Adam wasn’t done with her. Not by any means.

Three more days passed, and Adam began to wonder if he’d only imagined the beautiful changeling he’d been pursuing. There was absolutely no trace of her. She’d vanished like mist in sunlight.

Though he’d inquired at every alehouse between Rowallan and Ayr, he found nothing. It didn’t help that he couldn’t describe the person he hunted. And in the end, he had nothing to show for his efforts but an ale-induced headache.

Lying on the threadbare straw-stuffed pallet of the cheap inn he’d found on the outskirts of Ayr, Adam eyed the satchel beside the bed.

If Aillenn were here, he’d ask her which of the dozen vials contained a remedy for an aching head.

But the unmarked potions were useless to him.

For all he knew, he might end up drinking hemlock.

As his temples pulsed, he frowned at the satchel. Its contents were mostly unhelpful. Except for the silver coins. Those he’d used to keep his belly full and a roof over his head. But the rest were only a painful reminder of the woman who had broken his heart.

It would be best if he pretended he’d never met her. He could imagine she’d been one of the fae folk—charming, elusive, and dangerous—who’d left him a cache of silver. Perhaps by her leaving, he’d escaped a close brush with death.

It would be an easier story to believe if he didn’t have her possessions weighing him down with the stark proof of her existence.

He reached down and wrenched open the top of the satchel.

There it was again. The red velvet gown. And with it, the cloud of feminine fragrance that wafted forth to fill his nostrils and his heart and his loins with wistful longing.

He needed to get rid of it before it drove him mad.

It was half a day’s journey to his sister Feiyan’s keep, Castle Darragh.

Perhaps he’d go there on the morrow. It would be a relief to be himself for a while.

He’d give Feiyan the satchel of clothing and trade it for something more useful.

And he could confer with Feiyan and her husband Dougal mac Darragh about rumors of the king’s forthcoming attack on Fergus before heading to Galloway himself.

He lifted Aillenn’s gown to his face to take one more deep breath. He closed his eyes as desire and pain washed over him. Then he stuffed the garment back into the satchel, wishing he’d never met the beautiful deceiver with the wide, wet, innocent eyes.