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The bee hopped onto her face just as Jenefer loosed her arrow. Smashed between her cheek and her hand, it stung her thumb. It wasn’t enough to completely ruin her aim. But after Jenefer cursed and brushed away the pesky beast, she saw the shaft had missed the center by an inch.

Now they were tied.

But Eve thought perhaps it hadn’t been a fair contest.

“Madame,” she said in the low, hoarse voice of a French youth, “the Devil sent that bee. You may shoot again, if you wish.”

But Jenefer, normally renown for her fiery temper, simply shook her head. “If I can be distracted by a wee bee, I don’t deserve to win.”

Eve thought that was a very Rivenloch thing to say. The clan was known for their sense of honor. So she nodded and stepped up to the line for her final attempt.

Sending up a prayer that God would keep His wee bees at bay for one moment, Eve drew an arrow from her quiver.

Then she happened to glance off to the side of the field, where the crowd stood watching.

Her eyes paused on a knight in a dark blue surcoat emblazoned with the figure of a fox.

He held a jousting helm in the crook of his arm.

His head was coifed in padded linen which was tied to cover the lower part of his face as well.

Only his eyes showed above the coif. Staring at her.

But she would have recognized them anywhere.

Adam narrowed his gaze.

It couldn’t be.

And yet he was so sure those were the eyes imprinted on his brain. The lovely, wide, beautiful brown orbs of the nun he’d nearly trampled in this very place a fortnight ago.

Surely he was wrong.

This was no nun. This was a young lad. An archer. French, if the calls of “Jehan!” were meant for him.

The lass he’d run into had most definitely been a nun.

And though she’d said not a word, she’d had a wild Scottish look about her.

Fair skin with a smattering of freckles.

Fine, dark brows that had arched in judgment.

An unruly lock of chestnut hair that had escaped her veil to curl upon her delicate cheek.

If it wasn’t the nun, perhaps it was a relative of hers. He furrowed his brow and watched.

Though he hadn’t been following the archery, a quick glance at the target showed it was a close match. The lad must be good if he was keeping up with Jenefer.

It certainly wasn’t apparent from the lad’s manner now. He dropped his arrow. And when he went to pick it up, the whole quiver slipped down over his arm.

Flustered, ducking his head, the lad retrieved the arrows and slid the quiver back onto his shoulder. Then he blew out a forceful breath and approached the shooting line again.

He nocked the arrow and drew. But he seemed to have trouble steadying the bow. And the longer he hesitated, the more his muscles trembled. And the more his aim strayed.

When he finally let loose the shaft, it sailed far wide of the mark, lodging outside the target in the margins of the straw. The crowd ahhed in disappointment.

Jenefer had the final shot. As usual, she spent no time in preparation. She swiftly and easily added another arrow to the cluster in the center to win the match.

“Hey, Goupil!” someone called out from the crowd, distracting Adam. “Are ye fightin’ in the melee?”

The melee was the last event of the tournament. It was the most dangerous. It was also the most fun. A free-for-all mock battle with blunted weapons that could nonetheless do damage in the right hands.

Adam’s ribs were already aching from the joust. Even a light tap would mean a few days of coddling his injuries.

Still, he had enough Rivenloch spirit to accept the challenge. “Mais oui!”

The melee was also risky for another reason. In close combat, Le Goupil was much more likely to be recognized. He’d therefore continue to wear his padded linen coif to conceal his face and replace his jousting helm with a coif of chain mail.

He needed to return to his pavilion to prepare. The melee was next.

He turned back to the archery field in time to see the second place winner accepting a silver medallion from the king. Adam shook his head. He must be imagining things. That was no nun. The king stood a yard away from the archer. Surely he could tell the difference between a lad and a lass.

It was only that the face of that nun had haunted Adam for a fortnight now. And he didn’t know why.

Did he know her?

He didn’t think so.

But he knew her angelic face was going to plague him until he figured out who she was.

There was no way Eve was going to take part in the melee. She did many brave things, but the idea of willingly entering a field of combat to be pummeled half to death was not her idea of courage. It was foolhardy.

Besides, she’d achieved what she’d come to achieve. She’d won the silver medallion. Now she could repay Prior Isaac.

Peering down at her chest where the medallion hung, she rubbed her thumb over the engraving of a longbow.

She’d have to have a silversmith melt the piece down into something more religious.

Perhaps a decorative cross with the popular Latin saying which advocated a life of poverty, Nudus nudum Christum sequi, though the irony of engraving that on a silver cross wasn’t lost on her.

She smirked. Since the cross was recompense for the fire she’d started, perhaps it would be more fitting to engrave it with Quid pro quo.

She patted the medallion. The sooner she had the work done, the sooner she could return to the convent. For that, she’d need to visit the silversmith in Scone. And she’d have to change her identity again. She’d travel in the guise of the Irish noblewoman, Lady Aillenn Bhallach.

That was just as well. Despite fooling Jenefer of Rivenloch and King Malcolm, Eve had the uneasy feeling she’d been discovered.

That knight in the crowd—the one who looked so much like the Pope’s emissary that it had unnerved her and ruined her shot—had been staring at her.

Not so much staring as piercing through her disguise into her very soul.

It couldn’t have been the same man. She knew that. The emissary was likely on his way to Rome already. And this man was a weathered fighter with a jousting helm. Besides, his face had been shrouded in a linen coif. Only his eyes had been visible.

But the way he’d looked at her, as if in recognition, had rattled her to her core.

Perhaps he’d only realized she was a lass, not a lad. Perhaps that was what had made him gape.

Either way, it was time for her to change into another guise and flee. She hadn’t survived this long by being careless.

A hue and cry went up from the field. Suddenly, dozens of combatants surged forward, colliding with a bone-jarring crash. Now was her moment to escape.

As she made her way past the spectators who clung to the wattle fence, cheering on their favorites, her eye was caught by the flash of a blue surcoat in the midst of the fighting.

It was him again. The knight. The one who looked like the emissary.

This time he wore a chain mail coif and carried a blunted broadsword. He was hacking away at one of the Rivenloch warrior maids. She was dodging every blow.

Unable to tear herself away, Eve watched him thrust and block, whirl and lunge, desperate for any sign that would dispel the notion he was the man she’d seen before.

His fighting was superb. He battled with great insight, as if he knew what his opponent’s next move would be. He was obviously a seasoned warrior.

The idea that he might be the same man, that he might have been the messenger from the Pope, was absurd. There was a similarity perhaps. But no dedicated man of God could possess such combat skills.

So she convinced herself. And so she believed. Until, in the middle of a lunge, he turned his head toward her, and she saw those piercing eyes again.

She gasped.

He looked as startled as she felt.

He paid for his instant of inattention. The warrior maid he was battling took advantage of his distraction to push aside his shield. Then she planted her boot in the middle of his chest and gave him a great shove.

He folded in half with an “oof” and fell back onto his arse.

Eve’s eyes widened.

She had to get out of there. She didn’t know what was happening. Who he was. Why he looked so much like the man she’d seen a fortnight ago. How he seemed to recognize her, even with her face completely covered.

She definitely didn’t want to be anywhere near the battlefield when he recovered, sword in hand, and started looking for the one to blame for his defeat.

Once she got to her pavilion and transformed into Lady Aillenn, she’d be safe.

At least, she hoped she’d be safe. An expensive crimson velvet gown, gold jewelry, and her loose tresses adorned with pearls would surely hide the fact that, mere moments ago, she’d been the young archer Jehan of Rouen, and a fortnight ago, a humble nun.