Page 5

Adam didn’t care that the melee wasn’t finished. He didn’t even care that his ribs were throbbing where his cousin Hallie had booted him to the ground.

He had to know who that archer was.

He’d almost convinced himself that he’d imagined the resemblance between the lad Jehan and the nun. That at most they might be brother and sister.

But the shocked recognition he’d glimpsed in those familiar brown eyes staring at him in mid-melee was not a figment of his imagination. It had been real enough to cost him the battle.

He’d seen something else in those eyes as well. Alarm.

Why?

By the time Adam struggled to his feet, dodging the mayhem around him, the archer was gone.

Suddenly the melee lost its appeal. Adam used his sword and shield to pummel his way through the combatants to the outside of the main battle. Then he leaped over the wattle fence bounding the tournament field just in time to glimpse the archer hurrying toward the pavilions.

The lad was definitely fleeing. No doubt he’d gather his things from his pavilion, pack up, and make his way out the palisade gate.

Adam dared not follow in his battle gear. He’d be too conspicuous. The pavilions were deserted. Everyone who wasn’t sorely wounded was attending the melee, watching or fighting.

But once the lad emerged from his pavilion, Adam could be waiting for him at the gate.

Since the archer would be expecting Le Goupil of Paris, Adam would don another disguise.

Thankfully, his satchel contained everything he needed. Indeed, its capacity was the subject of much teasing in the clan. His youngest sister Merewen thought the satchel was magic. His aunt Deirdre claimed he could carry a full retinue of knights in it. His cousin Ian said it defied geometry.

None of that was true. But he did manage to stuff a substantial number of useful items in it. In his line of work, it was essential to be prepared for anything.

So when he emerged from the pavilion moments later, he’d packed his chain mail away and put on the tattered rags of a beggar.

One eye was covered with a patch. His chin sported a fake, gray, ratty beard.

His hair he covered with a grimy coif. And he limped along on a low wooden crutch, bent under the weight of his enormous satchel.

Near the gate, he dropped his satchel beside the wooden palisade and reclined against it, feigning sleep. He watched the exit through the lowered lashes of his uncovered eye.

He almost overlooked the archer making his escape. Because it wasn’t an archer.

Nor was it a nun.

Sweeping toward the gate with the grace of a windblown rose was a vision in scarlet.

Her sumptuous velvet skirts hugged her legs as she strode forward at a rapid clip, her pendant and a girdle of gold links lashing her surcoat.

An oversized satchel bounced on her hip with every hurried step.

Her dark hair, bedecked at the crown in pearls, streamed out behind her in curls that rippled like a rain-swollen stream as she rushed to freedom.

Adam almost let her pass. He hadn’t seen the noblewoman at the tournament.

She must be some lord’s wife, uninterested in the fighting, who’d remained behind in their pavilion.

Or some knight’s noble courtesan, fleeing home before his wife could catch her.

Indeed, she may have well been the king’s mistress, so beautiful and richly-appointed was she.

She spared him not a glance. Which wasn’t surprising. He looked more like a pile of rags than a human. But even though he saw her only through his one uncovered eye, when she drew near, his breath caught.

She was the one he sought. The archer. And the nun.

How was that possible?

She scurried through the palisade gate and out of sight.

Adam unfurled, coming to his feet, and shouldered his satchel. He shuffled forward on his crutch with a limp that was only half feigned after falling to Brand’s lance and Hallie’s boot. Then he passed through the gate and eyed the road in both directions.

There she was on the northward path, racing like a hare pursued by hounds.

Still, he hung back. There was no need to alarm her. Unless she took a turn, the road ran directly to the ancient bridge across the Tay.

She probably meant to cross the river. But he doubted she’d go far after that. It was already late in the day. It would be unwise for a woman so richly appointed to journey alone after dark. Indeed, it was unwise enough for a woman so eye-catching to travel alone by day.

Even if he hadn’t been tracking her, Adam would have likely followed the foolish lady for her own protection. Outlaws lurked around every corner.

He was well-versed in handling outlaws. He knew all their tricks. Indeed, he was the son of such an outlaw. A mysterious woodland thief who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. He occasionally enjoyed such pursuits himself.

The lady slowed as she crossed the bridge. He likewise slackened his pace.

On the other side she continued on the north road.

Adam was careful to hobble harmlessly along the path, keeping his head bowed. He didn’t want to arouse her suspicions.

Still, every now and then she turned nervously, as if she sensed she was being followed.

Eve couldn’t shake her suspicion that the old, crippled beggar doddering along behind her was following her.

Honestly, it was absurd. Why should she fret? This was a public road. He was simply a traveler.

Besides, why would an old, crippled beggar be following her?

Clearly, encountering that knight who had the same eyes as the Pope’s emissary had unsettled her. She needed to pull herself together before she started jumping at shadows.

The poor old man walked with a crutch, for heaven’s sake.

By his raggedy clothes and his raggedy beard, she guessed the satchel he carried contained all his worldly possessions.

The load bent his back into a severe hunch.

Under other circumstances, Sister Eve would have offered to carry it for him at least a mile or two.

But she wasn’t Sister Eve now. She was Lady Aillenn. A refined Irish noblewoman of wealth who was accustomed to getting what she wanted. And she wanted to get to Scone before the silversmith closed his shop.

So she satisfied herself by maintaining a safe distance. Surely in his condition, he wasn’t planning on traveling to Scone anyway. It was a three-mile journey.

He must have been fitter than he looked. Against all odds, he did indeed manage to shadow her all the way to Scone.

Now she definitely had to lose him. He could be a thief. If he wasn’t considering robbing her already, he’d be inclined to do so if he saw her visiting a silversmith. And she absolutely couldn’t have him following her to her place of lodging.

So once she entered the village, she intentionally dawdled, stopping in at several shops to make small unnecessary purchases. A ribbon here. A pair of gloves there. Herbs for the bath.

But always when she exited a shop, he was there.

He no doubt imagined himself inconspicuous among the crowd of villagers. Lounging against a wall. Sorting through his satchel. Examining the wares at a craftsman’s counter.

But his ubiquitous presence was too coincidental. He must have marked her for theft. She needed to shake him once and for all.

Walking briskly, she turned left down a narrow street between shops and then made an immediate right. She pressed herself against the plaster wall, waiting to see if he would follow.

She heard the clop of his crutch and the scrape of his boots as he came down the street. She held her breath, waiting for him to arrive.

She would do him no harm. She only meant to scare him. To make sure he learned she was not a lady to be victimized.

So when he stepped past her place of hiding, she sprang out, shouting, “Off with ye!”

To her astonishment, he wasn’t all that surprised. He blinked a few times. But he wasn’t frightened off at all.

Perhaps he was simpleminded. Perhaps he’d only followed her the way a duckling follows its mother.

Still, she didn’t want him tagging along behind her. She led a clandestine life. She couldn’t afford to interact with strangers.

To make her point clear, she furrowed her brows and in her best Irish accent, bit out, “Leave me be, sirrah.”

He only stared, seeming not to understand.

Then she noticed his beard was drooping oddly from his chin on one side.

It wasn’t real, she realized.

The knave was wearing a disguise.

She’d worn such fake beards twice before. Once when she’d posed as Mahmud the Arab spice trader. And once as King Arthur of Tintagel’s bastard son.

With a gleam of revelation in her eyes, she reached up and gave it a sharp yank.

The man cried out in pain and surprise as the beard tore off his chin, plopping onto the palm of her hand like a fat, furry squirrel.

She beamed at him in triumph, anticipating his look of outrage.

But it was she who was astonished.

“Ye,” she breathed, searching his vibrant brown eyes. It was him. He was the Pope’s emissary. And the knight. “’Tis ye.”

Adam paled.

His skin stung where she’d ripped the beard away. And now she knew his secret.

But how had she recognized him? His disguises were unparalleled. He’d never been unmasked before. Never. Not even by his own kin.

“How did you…?” he began. But he remembered he had a more pressing matter to address. “You’re that archer.”

Her face betrayed no emotion. “Archer? What archer?”

He narrowed his eyes, searching hers for a glimmer of deception. There was none.

Was he wrong? Did she only look similar to the archer? The archer had been from Rouen. This lass had a distinctly Irish lilt to her voice.

Then he remembered. “And the nun.”

She held his gaze. “Me? A nun? Ye must have me confused with someone else.”

Adam frowned. He could usually tell when a woman was telling a lie. They glanced away. Or licked their lips. Or fussed with their sleeve.

This woman did nothing. She looked at him directly, without artifice, as if she were telling him God’s truth.