Page 54

Eve had promised the abbess she would return before Martinmas.

She was going to keep her promise, but only by the skin of her teeth.

For the last half of her journey home, she’d had to let the useless mule walk beside her unencumbered while she carted her satchel across her back.

She feared this would be the poor old beast’s last journey.

She finally reached the convent on the afternoon of Martinmas. After stabling the mule, she passed through the cloisters. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she smelled the delectable Martinmas feast wafting from the kitchens.

Hurrying to her cell, she dropped her satchel beside her pallet and used the basin to wash for dinner. Her habit was dusty from travel, but since she’d burned her spare garments, it would have to do. Her stomach was growling as she scurried to dinner.

The rest of the sisters were already seated at the trestle tables, murmuring as they waited to be served by the novices.

She smiled. It was good to be back to the familiar faces and sounds and smells of home. And after a lean several days of travel, she was ready for a holy feast.

The nuns looked up when she entered. But instead of greeting her with welcoming smiles, they stopped chattering and swiveled their heads toward the abbess in expectation.

The abbess stood up from the table. “Welcome home, Sister Eve. Ye made it by Martinmas, as ye promised.” Then she opened her arm to the place of honor on her right. “Ye have a guest who’s been waitin’ to see ye.”

Eve’s smile froze in horror as she followed the abbess’s gesture.

Rising from his seat was Adam, dressed as a monk.

The abbess politely inquired, “I believe ye know Brother Adam?”

Eve resisted the urge to spin on her heel and make a hasty exit. Flee to Ireland. Or France. Or even bloody England. As far away from Rivenlochs as she could get.

“Sister Eve.” His voice was low, grim, filled with accusation.

It was the accusation in his voice that gave her the strength to stay where she was.

How dared he take that tone with her? As if this was all her fault?

He was the one who’d passed himself off as an outlaw when he was a damned Rivenloch.

He was the one who’d betrayed her…twice.

He was the one who’d stolen her heart…and her virtue. Who’d promised to marry her…and then abandoned her.

Her eyes watered now, with grief and rage.

But she wouldn’t let him win. This was her home. This was her destiny. He was in her house now. She wouldn’t let him ruin her entire future. Not again.

“Brother Adam,” she said in a level voice.

The nuns were watching both of them expectantly.

She forced a smile. “I hope I haven’t kept ye waitin’ too long.” Before he could reply, she pivoted to the abbess. “I fear the mule is on his last legs, Reverend Mother. He couldn’t even carry me home.”

“Well,” the abbess said in the awkward silence while Adam stared at Eve. “I suppose I shall have to see about acquirin’ a new beast.”

Finally, Adam spoke. “The Reverend Mother tells me ye traveled to Rivenloch.”

Eve reminded herself never to confide in the abbess again. The Reverend Mother couldn’t keep a secret longer than she could hold her breath. And from the lack of impressed gasps from the rest of the nuns, everyone already knew.

But that was a rather bold comment from Adam, knowing who he was.

“Indeed,” she said. “I hear ye’re quite familiar with Rivenloch yourself, Brother.”

A crease formed between his eyes as he realized she might know his secret.

“I’ve been a few times, aye.” His voice faltered slightly when he asked, “Did ye meet with the laird?”

“Oh aye,” she assured him.

But from his sickly expression, he was not assured.

“Come sit between us, Sister,” the abbess instructed, indicating the space to her right. “Ye must be starvin’. Dinner will be served anon.” Adam sat back on the bench, leaving room for Eve, and the abbess leaned toward him to confide, “’Tis quite a feast we serve on Martinmas.”

Eve had no appetite whatsoever. Her stomach was roiling with a volatile wave of emotions. Anger. Hurt. Outrage. Sorrow. Shame. Fury.

Nonetheless, she sat quietly beside the abbess as she said a prayer of thanks for the bounty and the novices began to serve dinner.

The first offering was Sister Eithne’s famous leek pottage, served with barley rolls and butter.

The conversation around them resumed, but Eve was too angry for words. She stabbed her eating knife into her roll with a little too much force, making Adam flinch.

“Butter?” he asked, offering her the bowl.

To her humiliation, her knife had gone through the roll and linen tablecloth and stuck in the table. She tried to pry it out, to no avail.

“Allow me,” he said, enclosing her hand within his on the handle to rock it loose.

She trembled with rage. How dared he touch her with such familiarity in front of her holy sisters?

When the knife was free, she grabbed her hand back so fast, she sliced his finger with the blade.

She hadn’t meant to.

Fortunately, no one else noticed.

But he winced and covered the cut quickly with his napkin. Then he leaned close to whisper, “There’s no need for violence. We can settle this like equals.”

His point was clear. Someone had revealed to him she was a merchant’s daughter. Bloody hell. What else had they told him?

She was too upset to speak calmly. She slathered butter on the roll and stuffed it in her mouth to stifle a curse of rage.

Meanwhile, novices brought dish after dish.

A salat of parsley, sage, mint, and leeks dressed with almond oil and verjuice.

A dish of roasted neeps and parsnips. Pastry coffyns stuffed with apples and onions.

A great roast of beef presented on a board and decorated with sprigs of rosemary.

Pears poached in wine. And darioles of milk, eggs, and cream, cooked into a tart crust.

Hard cider accompanied the meal. It was one novice’s task to refill the cups as needed. Eve decided she would keep the lass busy, for she intended to drink away her agitation.

She downed her first cup all at once and slammed the cup on the table, earning a scowl from the abbess.

“’Twas a long journey,” she explained.

“So how long were ye at Rivenloch?” Adam asked, pushing his neeps around on his trencher and trying to make the question sound casual.

“Long enough,” she told him cryptically.

She popped a large wad of salat into her mouth and instantly choked on the strong verjuice.

As she started coughing, Adam clapped her on the back, which didn’t help at all.

She slapped his hand away and stole his cup of hard cider to wash down the sour dressing.

“Are ye all right, Sister?” the abbess asked in concern.

“Fine, Reverend Mother,” Eve lied.

Her eyes were watering, her throat burned, and her nerves were stretched to the limit over this awkward interaction with Adam. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to their skirmish.

Adam’s hand tightened on his eating knife as he stared at the slice of roast on his trencher. “Did ye speak to anyone besides the laird?” he muttered.

“Oh aye,” she revealed with a measure of admittedly unhealthy satisfaction. “I spoke to a lovely lass named Isabel. Perhaps ye’ve met her.”

Of course he’d met her. She was his cousin.

“The name sounds familiar,” he hedged, smiling for the abbess, who’d taken a sudden interest in their conversation.

“She seems to know everythin’ about everyone,” Eve told him.

He turned as pale as the parsnips.

The novice returned to refill both their cups. They simultaneously took bracing gulps of cider.

After a moment, Adam murmured, “So ye know.”

“What?” she whispered back at him. “That ye’re a Rivenloch?”

Startled at her mention of his name, he let his knife slip, sending the roast slice out of the trencher and into her lap with a plop.

She squeaked in surprise and came to her feet.

The abbess scowled at her. “Sister Eve! Sit down. Behave yourself.”

Eve blushed. She didn’t bother explaining what had happened. But she made a particularly fierce glare at Adam.

And in an unladylike fit of revenge, she surreptitiously pushed the neeps to the edge of her trencher and flipped them into his lap.

He made a loud gasp that stopped the conversation around him.

“Is somethin’ amiss?” the abbess asked.

“Nay, Reverend Mother,” he said. “The neeps are just so delicious.”

The abbess smiled. She didn’t see the evil glint that appeared in his eyes when she looked away.

But Eve did. So she was only half-surprised when he subtly scooped a piece of wine-soaked pear into his palm and applied it under the table to Eve’s thigh, mashing it against her habit for good measure.

She gritted her teeth, eyeing the weapons at her disposal.

She’d eaten half of her apple and onion coffyn. So she picked it up. Gazing off nonchalantly toward the far table, she turned it upside down and let the filling slowly drip down his shoulder.

“Ah!” he cried, jumping up as the slimy mess made its way down his sleeve.

Everyone in the Refectory froze.

Eve tried and failed to contain her laughter.

The abbess gave her a sharp look. “Have ye lost your wits, Sister?”

Mid-laugh, Eve felt something on her arm. Adam had smashed the rest of his coffyn on her sleeve.

Her jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe he would do something so out of character in front of all these witnesses. Surely the abbess would realize he was not a monk now.

But if that was the war this scoundrel of a Rivenloch wanted to wage, Eve was there for it.

She picked up her dariole, scooped out the custard with her fingers, and smeared it on his face.

The abbess was beside herself. “Sister Eve! What the Devil?”

But Eve was too vexed to stop now. “How could ye let me believe ye were an outlaw?” she demanded.

Gasps of shock echoed in the hall.

“How could ye let me believe ye were an outlaw?” He wiped the custard from his face and smeared it on hers.

“An outlaw?” the abbess exclaimed. “What are ye talkin’ about?”