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The monks must have taken a smaller side path that diverted from the road into the woods. She watched for that branching trail.

The first side trail dead ended at a large boulder fifty yards in. The second trail dwindled to nothing after a few turns. But the third trail appeared to be well traveled, and after about a half-mile, Eve could glimpse red-and-gold-striped pavilions through the trees.

The camp was already awake. The air was filled with the clinking of pots, the stomp of boots, the low mumbles of men, and the acrid scent of smoke.

She’d come early to catch the king when he was least occupied and most vulnerable. If she approached him before he was fully awake, she’d be more likely to get his cooperation.

“Who are ye?” came a sudden gruff voice behind her.

Alarmed, Eve whipped around.

But Lady Hilda wouldn’t be alarmed. So Eve drew herself up to her full height—plus four inches—and looked the guardsman in the eye with a sultry smile.

“Lady Hilda of Dunlop, here to see the king.” Then she drew her gaze slowly down the front of the man’s tabard, as if sizing him up for a tryst. “Who are ye?”

Her frank appraisal rattled the guard. “I…I’m M-…M-…Martin. Martin o’—”

“Mmm, Martin,” she purred. “What a magnificent name.”

“M’lady?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Maybe later we’ll meet again?”

He gulped.

She released a sigh of regret. “But at the moment, I’m here for the king.”

If the guard mistook her to be a consort, that was his own fault. It would help her get an audience with the king all that much faster.

He led her through the camp, where she understandably received a lot of astonished glances. Women who weren’t cooks or laundresses were rare in a soldier’s encampment.

Once they arrived at the royal pavilion, the guardsman spoke to a fellow guard, who entered the king’s quarters. After a moment, she was allowed in.

She tried not to appear shocked when she saw the king half-reclining on his pallet in only his sheer leine with the coverlet pulled up to his waist.

He gave her an appreciative smile.

“To what do we owe this lovely surprise?” he asked. “We didn’t order a consort.”

She gave him a silky reply. “Why, Your Grace, I’m flattered, but I fear ye misunderstand my presence here. I’m Lady Hilda o’ Dunlop.”

Malcolm was understandably flustered. He stammered and then glared at his guards.

She swept in to soothe him. “But I’m so very grateful for your attention, and I apologize for the earliness o’ the hour. This should take but a few moments.”

The king seemed mollified by her words, though he modestly pulled the coverlet up to his neck.

“I’m the niece o’ the Laird o’ Dunlop and cousin to Lady Carenza,” she told him with a nod of deference.

“Lady Carenza,” the king echoed.

Naturally he’d heard of Carenza, even if he hadn’t been back in Scotland long. Her beauty and sweetness were legendary.

“I’ve been sent to request royal approval o’ Lady Carenza’s betrothal.”

She reached into her satchel and pulled out the rolled parchment. She hoped he wouldn’t notice that, according to the document, the marriage had already been accomplished.

As she expected, the king was uncomfortable enough with his misjudgment of the situation to wish to be done with her as soon as possible.

“Scribe!” he called.

“I think ye’ll be well pleased with the match, Your Grace.”

Her words made him reconsider. After all, Lady Carenza was a valuable asset when it came to clan alliances. “Who is the bridegroom?”

“Sir Hew du Lac o’ Rivenloch.”

“Rivenloch?” He stroked his chin, seeming to consider the match. But he couldn’t hide the satisfaction in his eyes. To be able to reward his most loyal clan with such a prize was propitious indeed. “Aye, that would please us.”

Thankfully, the king paid more heed to the flourish of his signature and the proximity of the hot sealing wax to his leine-clad chest than to the words on the document.

As promised, their exchange took but a few moments. He seemed relieved to be rid of her and done with the whole embarrassing ordeal.

With the first and most difficult part of her mission accomplished, Eve could rest easier. She thanked the king, curtseyed, and exited the pavilion.

Just outside, she took a moment to collect her nerves. She carefully rolled the dried, sealed parchment and tucked it into her satchel. Then she crouched to tighten the buckles on her pattens.

She rather liked the height these pattens gave her, she decided. They made her feel imposing. And powerful. Perhaps she would wear them more often.

She suddenly heard the king call out a greeting from inside his pavilion.

She blinked. She would have sworn he’d said “Adam.”

Then she chided herself. He could have as easily said Edmund or Baldwin…or Madam. Even if he had said Adam, there were probably a dozen Adams in the king’s service.

Still, it troubled her. Eyeing the guards behind her and the soldiers milling about, she slipped back around the shadowy side of the pavilion and leaned close to listen through the canvas wall.

The king was speaking.

“We hear congratulations are in order for your clan.”

The response was muffled. She placed her ear against the fabric, not an easy feat with a thick horsetail braid.

The king continued, “Your cousin Hew’s betrothal?”

“Ah. Aye, Your Grace.”

Eve froze. It was hard to be certain. The accent was more noble, less rustic. But his voice…

He asked, “Did my aunt Deirdre send word?”

It was him. It was Adam.

But “cousin Hew”? “My aunt”? Was he feigning to be a Rivenloch? Was that why he needed that medallion?

“Nay, not Deirdre,” the king said. “Lady Carenza’s cousin was just here. Did ye not cross paths?”

Eve’s heart stopped. Shite. What if Lady Carenza didn’t have a cousin? What if Adam knew that?

“Her cousin was just here?” Adam replied. “I didn’t see him.”

“Her,” the king corrected.

“Her?” Adam echoed. “Hmm. Is that so? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Eve’s heart began pounding like a fuller’s mill. She could hear it in his voice. He knew. She couldn’t imagine how, but he knew.

The king continued, “So what news do you bring from the enemy camp?”

Enemy camp? Was Adam a spy?

“It’s worse now, Your Grace. He’s besieging keeps of other clans, demanding fealty from the survivors.”

“Fealty?”

“Aye. There are some who believe he wishes to form an alliance with the English against Your Grace.”

“What the devil? This is serious indeed.”

Eve scowled. Who were they talking about?

“We shall muster the troops this eve,” the king decided. “We’ll attack at dawn.”

“At dawn?”

“Aye. Knock down the rebellion ere breakfast.”

Eve chewed at her lip. She had to make herself scarce. Not only because she’d overheard something she shouldn’t have. But because she suddenly realized the truth.

Adam wasn’t feigning to be a Rivenloch. He was a Rivenloch.

And even if the king wasn’t perceptive enough to realize he’d once played the Pope’s emissary, he apparently knew Adam of Rivenloch well enough to trust him as a royal spy.

Her brain suddenly spun in a maelstrom of shock and fear, surprise and dismay, disillusionment and horror.

How could she not have known?

The fact that he could carry off an air of nobility so well should have been an obvious sign.

Just like the rest of his clan, he was strong, handsome, and bright. Now that she thought of it, he even bore a resemblance to the other Rivenloch men she’d seen. He had the same broad shoulders. The same square jaw. The same fierce eyes.

No wonder he’d been so eager for the return of his medallion. The piece was legitimately his.

But she’d been blinded by her affections. And he’d taken advantage of that blindness. He’d made her fall in love with him.

Her eyes welled. Her throat closed. How could she have left herself so vulnerable?

Then she gave her head a firm shake. She couldn’t dwell on her failure.

She had to figure out what to do now.

As much as it crushed her, as much as it made her heart crack in two, she had to face the truth.

Adam had never been serious about marrying her. The idea was absurd. He thought she was an outlaw. A Rivenloch bachelor was a valuable pawn. The king would never allow him to wed a female thief.

But of course Adam had known that all along.

So Eve must have been part of his cover as a spy. A foil to afford him anonymity. A traveling companion to help him embed himself into whatever clan he had under surveillance.

He’d deceived her—kissing her, holding her, swiving her—all the while letting her believe he was a common outlaw like her.

Tears of heartbreak threatened at the corners of her eyes.

It was as if she’d slept with with a stranger.

She’d been so full of affection and desire and hope. He’d awakened things inside of her she’d never known were there.

Now she mourned the life she might have led. The husband she might have adored. The mother she might have become.

Her chest felt as if an anvil had been set on top of it. Her heart ached with loss and longing.

Yet more than just her heart was at stake.

There was no time for grief. She had to protect her mission.

Adam knew about the marriage document now. He would be furious if he found out it was Eve who had manipulated the king into signing it. He might try to seize it. To destroy it.

She couldn’t let that happen. She’d sworn to Hew and Carenza that she would see their union sealed. She owed them a debt of honor.

She had to flee.

As she turned and wove her determined way through the campfires, she spied persistent M-M-Martin hovering at the edge of the camp.

He took a tentative, hopeful step toward her as she neared.

But she gave him a quick shake of her head, instantly quelling his advances.

Then she hurtled past the last pavilion and through the forest, eager to get back to the safety of the convent.

A few hundred yards down the path, she realized while her pattens gave her desirable stature, the wobbly things were slowing her. She stopped for a moment, crouching down to unbuckle them and shove them into her satchel.

Then she rose again and lunged forward, abruptly colliding with a thick wool gambeson.