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Without hesitation, he wrenched open the door, pulling it off its hinges. Smoke boiled out, and he raised an arm to shield his face. Then he disappeared inside.

Eve stilled in shock. Her heart leaped into her throat.

Why had he done that?

It was impulsive. Reckless. Dangerous.

What if he couldn’t find Simon?

What if he didn’t come out?

Eve held her breath, fearing the worst, while Fonia whimpered beside her. Time churned like an oxcart through mud as she watched the doorway with tearing eyes. The acrid odor of burning thatch stung her nose as flames licked up through the smoky roof. Still he didn’t emerge.

When she finally glimpsed Adam’s broad back, he was dragging a man out through the door and away from the conflagration. Her breath escaped in a relieved whoosh.

Fonia raced toward them, skidding to her knees beside the limp body. “Simon!”

Adam covered a racking cough with his sleeve. His face was sweaty and soot-stained.

Eve spared one glance at Simon. Then her gaze returned to Adam.

The hem of his robe was on fire.

“Adam!” she cried. “Your cassock!”

She charged forward. Together they beat the flames into smoldering submission.

By now, the entire roof was ablaze, roaring with fury. It was too late to save the structure.

Was it too late to save Simon?

Eve crouched beside him and felt his neck for a pulse. He was alive, but unconscious.

His chest was covered in blood from a nasty dagger that protruded from his side.

Eve felt a sudden twinge of uncertainty. She could cure headaches. She could bandage cuts and scrapes. She knew what herbs to use for stomach ailments and bruises and the pain of monthly courses.

But she’d never had to deal with mortal battlefield wounds like this.

Perhaps Adam was right.

Perhaps she’d taken on something that was beyond her skills.

But there was no time to take him to the convent. He’d already lost a lot of blood. And at the very least, if she had to give him last rites, she was qualified to do it.

It would mean revealing the truth to Adam, that she had the authority to deliver last rites. But when it meant saving a man’s soul, it was worth the price.

Fortunately, Adam had seen wounds like this before. When you lived in a clan full of warriors, someone was always getting wounded.

He hunkered down beside Simon to examine the injury.

“’Tisn’t too deep,” he said, blinking the ash from his eyes. “It looks like it missed his heart. If we can stop the bleeding…”

“I have linen for bandages,” Eve said, opening her satchel.

A dagger puncture would require more than just a bandage. The cut would need to be stitched closed first.

“Do ye have a needle and thread?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“And Fonia, do ye have…”

The poor woman was clutching her husband’s hand, trying to massage it back to life.

“Och, Simon,” she wailed. “Don’t leave me.”

Fonia was too upset to be of much help. But Eve was steady as a rock.

“Ye’ll need verjuice and honey as well,” she said, finding them in her satchel.

“Good. I’m goin’ to pull out the dagger,” he told her. “But we’ll need somethin’ to stop the bleedin’.”

“Use this,” she said, pulling out the blue brocade gown she’d worn as Lady Hilda. “’Tis thick and sturdy.”

“Are ye certain?” That gown must have cost a fortune.

“Aye. Savin’ a life is its best use.”

Pride swelled his chest. Eve might be small and plain and invisible to most. But to Adam, she was a heroine. Strong. Beautiful. Brave. Magnificent.

While Eve bunched the fabric into a compress, she told Fonia, “Ye need to pray for him now. Harder than ye’ve e’er prayed. Ask God to save him.”

Fonia obliged, letting go of Simon, closing her eyes, and clasping her hands in fervent prayer.

Whether Eve believed prayer would work or if it was only a way to keep Fonia calm and distracted, Adam wasn’t sure. But it was a wise suggestion.

“When I pull the dagger free,” he told her, “ye’ll need to press very firmly against the wound. Can ye do that?”

She nodded, though he saw she’d gone a bit pale. He could cross surgeon off the list of her possible true identities. Whoever Eve was—outlaw, nun, noblewoman, or tournament champion—she probably wasn’t used to seeing so much blood.

“Ready?” he asked, wrapping his fingers around the haft of the dagger.

She nodded.

The blade slipped free more easily than he expected. That was a good sign. Simon made a soft groan, still only half-conscious. But blood oozed out, and Eve’s blue brocade bloomed dark scarlet as she closed her eyes tight against the grisly sight.

He set aside the bloody dagger and, taking mercy on her, gently replaced her hands with his own.

“I’ve got this,” he said. “Can ye thread the needle and soak it with verjuice?”

She nodded, no doubt glad to be relieved of the gruesome duty.

While he kept pressure on the wound, he eyed the discarded dagger.

It was a standard weapon. It could have belonged to anyone. But when his glance caught on the metal seal embedded in the haft, his blood ran cold.

It was the Scottish royal insignia. Simon had been stabbed by one of the king’s men.

An unthinkable possibility reared its ugly head.

“Fonia,” he whispered out of Eve’s hearing. “Whose clan do ye belong to?”

“Fergus,” she murmured back. “Why?”

The terrible truth hit him like a quintain in the gut. But he forced a smile of reassurance to his lips. “Ye have clanfolk to care for ye then?”

“Aye.”

Adam ground his teeth. Bloody hell. The king needed a firmer rein on his men-at-arms.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened.

Rogue royal soldiers had stopped at the alehouse, drank too much, and decided to avail themselves of the charms of the Fergus clan alewife.

Her husband had intervened to protect her and been stabbed for his efforts.

And to destroy the evidence, the men had set fire to the alehouse.

He felt sick. War was supposed to be noble. Armed warriors fighting armed warriors. Not innocent innkeepers and wives murdered in their dwellings. Not defenseless crofters and children slain in cold blood. Not unarmed clanfolk suffering burned fields, butchered cattle, and decimated villages.

Both sides, it seemed, were guilty of dishonorable battle tactics.

He’d witnessed the lawless raids from the Fergus clan.

Now he saw evidence of rampant violence on behalf of the king.

Adam was trapped in the midst of the corruption. By oath, he must be loyal to King Malcolm. But in his soul, he knew what the king allowed was wrong.

The only way out of the turmoil was to subdue both sides. To somehow convince them that war wasn’t the answer. But he wondered if that was a hopeless endeavor, considering how much men loved to wield weapons.

He’d subdued an uprising before, at Perth, between the king and his rebelling lairds.

For that, he’d used the power of the church.

He doubted it would work in this situation.

But perhaps, being a spy on both sides of the war, he could whisper in the ears of the two leaders and persuade them to come to a peaceful compromise.

Eve, averting her eyes, presented him with the threaded needle.

He carefully removed the blood-soaked gown. The cut was still there, but the bleeding had subsided for the moment. Still, he had to work fast.

“I’m goin’ to need both o’ ye to help hold him down.”

Though he worked quickly, stitching up the wound was an unpleasant task. Simon jerked awake and moaned with each jab of the needle. And Fonia sobbed with each of his moans of pain.

Finally it was done.

“A dollop o’ honey, a clean bandage,” he announced, “and Simon should be good as new.”

Eve wasn’t so sure about that.

Simon had roused with a yelp when Adam made the first stitch to close his wound.

He was obviously glad to see his wife unharmed and the knife out of his side.

But the pain of the needle was fierce. And sometimes infection set in after such a wound.

On top of his physical suffering, the sight of his smoldering alehouse was doubtless dispiriting.

With Fonia’s encouragement, he survived the rest of the stitches.

As for Eve, she hadn’t been able to watch. She couldn’t imagine how Adam could endure it. On the other hand, she supposed a Rivenloch warrior had to be accustomed to inflicting and repairing wounds.

She handed him the pot of honey and linen for bandages.

While he worked, her gaze lit upon the dagger lying nearby. She narrowed her eyes at the button set into the haft. When she recognized the king’s insignia, she stifled a gasp.

Had Simon been stabbed by a royal soldier? Were Fonia’s attackers in the king’s army? Was this the kind of war against the Fergus clan Malcolm’s men-at-arms were waging?

It seemed too horrible to consider. And yet the evidence was undeniable.

She had to tell Adam.

He might be the king’s man. But surely he’d never approve of such senseless violence against innocent clanfolk.

She had to make things right. More than ever, she sensed that God had called her here. Led her to this place to redress those wrongs. She would find the men who had assaulted Fonia, stabbed Simon, and set fire to their alehouse. And she would see they paid for their sins.

While Fonia and Adam were distracted, Eve wiped the bloody dagger on the grass and slipped it into her satchel.

Eventually, a group of neighboring clanfolk came to seek the source of the smoke.

By then the fire was mostly out, leaving the alehouse smoldering.

Exclaiming in dismay and empathy, they comforted Fonia and Simon.

They thanked the kindly monk and nun profusely.

And they offered the homeless couple lodging and food until they could recover.

Eve and Adam bid them farewell, knowing they were safe in the bosom of their clan.

But as soon as they returned to the path, Eve confronted Adam.

“We can’t go to Darragh yet,” she said.

“Why? They’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Their clanfolk will care for them.”

She pulled the dagger from her satchel. “This is why.” She showed him the royal insignia. “King Malcolm’s men did this. We need to make this right.”

He stared down at the dagger for a long while. Then he sighed.

She was prepared for him to be resistant. After all, though she wasn’t supposed to know who he was, she knew he’d sworn allegiance to Malcolm. She expected he’d try to make some improbable excuse for the soldiers’ actions.

He’d say the dagger wasn’t proof. It could have been stolen by someone else.

Or the stabbing had been an unfortunate accident, despite all appearances otherwise.

Or perhaps Simon had attacked Fonia, and the soldiers had only been defending her.

The last thing she expected was for him to agree with her.