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Adam knew his remark had nothing to do with loyalty and everything to do with mistrust. Fergus wanted him close at hand. If things went awry, Adam would be there to receive the brunt of his rage.

Adam would deal with that when the time came. At least for now, he had prevented a surprise attack on the king and kept Eve safe from harm.

Eve had no intention of remaining a prisoner. Not even a privileged prisoner of the king.

She had things to do. A Greater Purpose to achieve.

Adam may have thought he could use her as a means to an end, a pawn he could sacrifice to bring him closer to King Malcolm.

But he’d underestimated her determination and her skill.

She was no helpless hostage, waiting faithfully in the hopes Adam would return to free her. Indeed, she doubted he’d return at all. Why would he? He’d get no ransom from Fergus.

What then was he planning?

She couldn’t guess.

But she wasn’t going to sit idly by until her fate was decided for her.

She couldn’t escape at once, of course. Building trust took time. But abiding in the pavilion of the physician had its advantages.

She found, even shackled, she could be of some use. First of all, she’d cooperated with her captors. They were probably so relieved to have a willing prisoner, they didn’t question her choice when she offered her hands to be shackled in front of her rather than behind.

The physician in whose pavilion she was imprisoned wouldn’t speak to her. At least not at first. He’d likely been warned by the king that she was a spy, that he should beware her lying tongue.

But she quickly discovered, as with most of those in the healing profession, he was a gentle man with a kind nature, driven to help others. All she needed to do was convince him they were kindred spirits.

She began by reciting her prayers at frequent intervals. The king had told the physician she wasn’t really a nun. She would prove him wrong.

She made the usual entreaties, of course.

Grant me Your grace. Give me time for repentance.

Your will be done. But she added her own personal prayers.

For the health and safety of the soldiers on both sides.

For the forgiveness of those who had wronged her, wittingly or unwittingly.

For God to guide the physician’s hands. And for the improving welfare of all those he treated.

The physician couldn’t help but be influenced by her good will.

Soon a royal guard came in with the complaint of an aching belly.

“Ye as well?” the physician said with a sigh. “The cook must have served rotten meat. Ye’re the fourth today. I’m out o’ ginger, but I have oil o’ rosemary. ’Tis the best I can do.”

“Good sir,” Eve said softly, “I have ginger.” She nodded toward the corner of the pavilion, where the guards had left her things. “In my satchel.”

He looked at her with suspicion, as if she were offering him poison.

The guard groaned and clutched his abdomen.

The physician frowned and reluctantly reached for her satchel.

He pulled out the vials, reading the markings until he came to the one with ginger. He uncorked it and sniffed at the contents. Then he dribbled a wee bit on his palm and tasted it. Satisfied, he spilled a few drops upon the guard’s tongue.

The guard grimaced in disgust and tried to spit it out. “’Tis poison! Ye’ve poisoned me!”

“Nay!” he barked, closing the man’s jaw with his hand. “’Tis only a strong flavor. Ye’ll be fine.”

As the guard began to wheeze, likely making the effect of the ginger worse, the physician shook his head and shared a smile of amusement with Eve.

“Go on then,” he told the guard. “Lie down for a while, and ’twill pass.”

The man’s eyes were watering when he left, but he nodded.

When he’d gone, the physician corked the vial and slipped it back into her satchel. “I’m ne’er sure whether ginger is a healin’ herb or a clever distraction.”

She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I suppose ’tis good medicine, as long as it works.”

“That ’tis. Thank ye, lass.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to speak with the cook. I’ve used up all my ginger just this morn.”

“Ye’re welcome to mine,” she said. “Take as much as ye need.”

“Ye’ve got quite a treasury o’ herbs,” he remarked.

“We practice some medicine at the convent.”

“The king said ye were a spy.”

“I fear His Grace was misinformed.” She lowered her gaze. “O’ course, as a woman o’ God, ’tis my duty to forgive.”

“Ye are a nun then?”

“Aye. I’m Sister Eve from the convent near Mauchline.”

“Peter Macgeil,” he said with a nod of his head.

“I’m glad to meet ye, Peter Macgeil. And please help yourself to any herbs ye require. I have just one request.”

“Aye?”

“Would ye be so kind as to bring me a chamberpot and linens?”

As she predicted, Peter looked horrified that the king had forgotten such a simple necessity. He glanced at her shackles in concern.

“I can manage,” she assured him.

He brought her the chamberpot and abruptly left to give her some privacy.

Using it was not an easy feat, but having her hands bound before her made it possible. And the fact she made no attempt to escape in his absence made Peter trust her that much more.

A few more soldiers and a maidservant came in with stomach complaints, and Eve prayed aloud for them while Peter administered the ginger drops.

Finally a warrior arrived with a serious gash in his forearm, one he’d earned from what was supposed to have been a practice match. Judging by the scars that roped his arms, it wasn’t the first time he’d been injured.

Peter examined it, winced, and clucked his tongue.

“We may have to cauterize it.”

Eve blanched. Cauterizing was an extreme measure, she knew. Not only was it excruciatingly painful. It was only successful some of the time. Often infection set in, causing the loss of the limb.

“Nay,” she blurted out. Then, before she realized what she was offering, she said, “I can do it. I can stitch it up.”

“Aye, stitch it up,” the injured man urged, none too eager to have a hot brand pressed against his flesh.

Peter looked as if he was entertaining the possibility. Then he grimaced with regret. “I can’t unlock your shackles, lass.”

The warrior frowned down at her, confused. “Ye’re in irons?”

“I don’t need them unlocked,” she said.

Even as the words spilled out, she regretted them. What the Devil was she offering? She’d never sewn a man’s flesh in her life. The one time she’d seen Adam do it, she’d nearly fainted.

Yet somehow she knew she could do it. She could steel herself for the gruesome task, remember her Greater Purpose, pray for strength, and save this man’s arm.

Peter stared down at the wound and pursed his mouth in indecision.

The warrior had no time for his hesitancy. “Give me opium wine. Let her stitch me up.”

“All right.”

He pulled a bottle out of his great chest of medicines and handed it to the warrior, who began guzzling it down.

“Not too much,” Peter warned as he kept pressure on the wounded arm.

With his free hand, he reached into a velvet-padded section of the chest and retrieved a length of fine catgut and a silver needle.

“Can you hold this?” he asked Eve, indicating the blood-soaked linen pad over the wound.

She bit her lip and gave him a curt nod. Then she set her hands to the task, stanching the flow.

Peter snatched the opium wine from the warrior, who would have drunk himself to death, and drizzled it over the needle and catgut. Then he quickly threaded the needle.

“I’ll keep him still and hold the wound closed,” he said. “Ye stitch, aye?”

She nodded, still aghast that she’d offered her services. But it was too late to back out now. The warrior was depending on her. The physician was depending on her.

At his first bellow of pain, Eve had to resist the urge to drop the needle, cover her ears, and cower into a shivering heap.

But if he could endure this, so could she. And if Adam could save a man’s life with his bare hands, she was hardly going to let him best her.

So, drowning out his groans by murmuring prayers for strength, she continued to stitch until the opium finally took him to a place of peace. By then she was able to regard her handiwork with less horror and more of an artistic eye. She made sure to keep the stitches small so they would heal neatly.

“Ye’ve done this before,” Peter said, snipping the catgut with a small pair of shears when she was done.

“Nay,” she admitted. “’Twas God who guided my hand.”

It felt like the truth. Indeed, she began to wonder if perhaps she was meant to be a healer.

Fortunately, she wasn’t so distracted by the idea of her new calling that she forgot to take measures for her eventual escape. As Peter bandaged the wound and cleaned up the bloody linens, she secreted the shears in her skirts.

She set to work at nightfall, after the campfires were banked.

Picking the lock of the shackles was fairly easy using one narrow blade of the shears. While Peter snored from his pallet, she freed herself and retrieved her satchel.

Before she left, she cast one last look toward the physician. He was a decent man. She hated to deceive him. She hoped the king wouldn’t make him suffer for her escape.

Slipping the vial of ginger out of the satchel, she placed it atop his chest of medicines and stole out into the night, headed for the convent.