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“So ye didn’t win second place in the archery contest?” he asked, crossing his arms in challenge. “And ye weren’t at Perth durin’ the siege?”

“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”

She seemed sincere. She hadn’t even lowered her gaze.

It was true, now that he thought about it, the nun had been much plainer than this elegant noblewoman.

And no archer lad could look so beautiful. The king, at least, had believed he was a lad.

Why then was Adam’s memory insisting they were all the same person? Were his powers of observation dwindling?

“But what about ye?” she challenged, holding up his fake beard between a thumb and finger. “Can ye explain this?”

He held out his hand. She dropped the beard into his palm.

To his chagrin, lies always came readily to mind. “Verily, I was hired by the king to follow ye.”

“Follow me? Why?”

“He was concerned for your safety.”

“The king? Concerned for me?” A furrow creased her brow. Apparently, the woman didn’t believe that. Perhaps she had a strained relationship with the king.

He continued. “Aye. King Malcolm posted us at the gate with instructions to see any unaccompanied ladies to their destination.”

“Is that so?” The subtle arch in her brow indicated her skepticism. “Then why the disguise? Why not send a knight in full battle dress bearin’ the king’s arms?”

That did make more sense. Damn, the lady was clever. He liked that. Even if it made his deception more challenging.

“’Tis less threatenin’.” He shrugged. “And most people don’t even notice old crippled beggars. They’re—”

“Invisible.”

“Right.”

“But I saw ye.”

“Aye, ye did.” That was remarkable. He’d grown so accustomed to disappearing into the shadows, melting into the crowd, moving unseen through the world, it was strange to be noticed.

“Well, ye’ve done your duty,” she decided. “Ye may return to the king and tell him I arrived safely.”

She was sending him away. Which was a pity. Despite her having him at a disadvantage by uncovering his disguise, he would have liked to get to know her better.

She was not only beautiful. She was bright. She was also bold, tugging on a stranger’s beard like that.

He rubbed his chin. For that offense, the least she could do was tell him her name. Then he wouldn’t make the same mistake again and confuse her with another.

“From whom shall I send word to the king?” he inquired.

She straightened proudly. “Lady Aillenn Bhallach.” It was a good Irish name. He was rolling it around in his mind when she added, “And ye are?”

He took a breath to reply. Then, to his alarm, he hesitated. Who was he? Was he William the beggar? Le Goupil of Paris? “Adam…”

Ballocks! He’d given her his real name. Why had he done that? He never gave strangers his real name. It was like handing a dagger to a thief.

“Adam…?”

“Greenwood. Adam Greenwood,” he improvised.

“Farewell then, Adam Greenwood,” she cooed. Then she gave him a nod, picked up her satchel, and swept past him back to the main road.

“Farewell, Lady Aillenn.”

He watched her depart, admiring the subtle sway of her scarlet skirts and the gentle bounce of her chestnut locks. Then he glanced at the large satchel she carried.

He scowled.

A piece of cloth protruded from the top and flapped against the satchel with each step. A woolen hood of dark green. Just like the one the archer had been wearing.

Eve felt his eyes on her all the way back to the main road.

She thanked God for her ability to look at ease in the face of danger. She walked with a practiced nonchalance, though inside she was shaking like a fall leaf clinging to a winter branch. Half from fright. Half from anger.

Adam Greenwood, her arse. He was no more Adam Greenwood than he was the Pope’s emissary or a knight from Paris. Nor did she believe he’d followed her on the orders of the king.

Outrage and disquiet warred within her as she strode onto the street.

She was vexed with him for perpetrating such deception. And vexed at herself for nearly exposing her own.

For the moment, she wouldn’t think about the hypocrisy of one pretender harboring such resentment against another. She needed to focus on her survival.

First, before she ventured on to the silversmith’s shop, she had to settle her nerves.

Lady Aillenn would never show up to an appointment with flushed cheeks and darting eyes. Lady Aillenn was calm. Cool. Elegant. A wealthy Irish noblewoman with a discriminating eye for craftsmanship and design.

If Eve wanted excellent service, she’d have to look like a person who deserved it.

She saw what seemed to be a reputable inn, The Grey Goose. Perhaps a pint would help restore her sense of tranquility.

As usual, Eve earned abundant stares. Lady Aillenn was the opposite of invisible. One didn’t often see a lady going into an inn by herself. But she’d dealt with that before. The key was to exude confidence. To walk in as if she owned the place.

She strode directly to the hearth. A man sitting on a wooden stool immediately vacated it for her. She seated herself with an entitled nod and set her satchel down beside her. Then she summoned the innkeeper with a lift of her finger, indicating she wished to be served.

A serving lass rushed over. “What may I fetch ye, m’lady?”

“A pint o’ your best.”

In the end, it took two pints to calm her rattled nerves. But by then, she’d lingered long enough to be sure Adam Greenwood—or whatever his name was—had left for good.

She smoothed her skirts, hefted up her satchel, and made her way out of the inn. As she exited, she looked both ways to be sure the crippled old impostor was gone.

She saw only a half dozen young men chatting, a woman carrying a babe on her hip, a pair of giggling lasses, a sour-faced monk, a lad herding a flock of geese, and a knight guiding his horse down the road.

Merging with the villagers, she continued toward the silversmith’s shop.

By the time she rang the bell at his door, and the silversmith unlocked and opened it to her, she’d all but forgotten about the man in disguise who’d almost exposed her.

Now she was fully Lady Aillenn. Self-assured. Cultivated. And willing to pay for services well done and in a timely manner. She retrieved the silver medallion from her satchel and explained what she wanted.

When the mysterious lass emerged from The Grey Goose, her gaze glossed over Adam completely. Adam, standing at his regular height, capped and cloaked, and missing his beard, coif, eye patch, and crutch, was unremarkable. He easily dissolved into a group of chatting young men. She took no notice.

She’d lingered in the inn for nearly half an hour. Adam couldn’t have followed her inside, of course. In the cramped quarters, she would have noticed him immediately.

Now she seemed less wary of her surroundings. She straightened with determination, heading north. He followed, keeping his cloak closed and his cap pulled low over his brow.

When she stopped at the silversmith’s shop, his suspicions were confirmed.

She had to be the French archer, as wildly improbable as it seemed. Le Goupil had won second place in the archery tournament. He… She had been awarded a silver medallion.

But Lady Aillenn Bhalloch, an Irish noblewoman, likely had no use for such a trinket. No doubt she planned to sell it to the silversmith and pocket the coin.

He had to admit, it was a clever scheme. Especially since her disguise had been convincing enough to fool the king.

Was this a habitual pastime for her? Was she some sort of female archer-errant? Did she travel from tournament to tournament, winning prizes and cashing them in for their value?

He couldn’t help but grin in appreciation. It was just the sort of spirited, rebellious, cocky thing his intrepid Rivenloch aunts might do. But they wouldn’t bother with the disguise.

Now he was intrigued. He had to find out what this elusive pretender was up to. Even if it took all day.

But as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, and she still didn’t emerge from the shop, he began to think he’d been wrong about all of it.

Perhaps the green hood hanging out of her satchel was only a coincidence.

Perhaps she hadn’t been the archer after all.

Perhaps she was the silversmith’s wife and had simply gone home.

He was almost ready to shuffle back to Perth when the silversmith’s door rattled open again. Adam drew back into the narrow space between shops and peered at her from beneath his cap.

She eyed the sky with a furrowed brow, as if noting the lateness of the day. Then she shouldered her satchel and pressed onward down the road, turning west toward the woods.

As he watched her walk away, Adam noticed he wasn’t the only one with an eye on her. From behind the last building, two rough-looking men eased out onto the road behind her. They too must have been monitoring the silversmith’s shop. Waiting for her to exit. Sure she’d have silver in her satchel.

Now Adam was definitely going to follow her. He was a Rivenloch at heart. He wasn’t about to walk away and let a lady become the victim of thieves.

They wouldn’t immediately accost her. Not this close to the village. Not where she could put up a hue and cry and bring the law down upon them.

Nay, they would track her until she was isolated in the dark middle of the wood and then demand their due.

So Adam would track them.

Eve could hear the travelers on the path behind her. There was a good chance they were thieves. It was a rare journey when she didn’t cross paths with thieves. Times were difficult, and not every beggar had a charitable convent nearby.

They probably thought they were being inconspicuous. Which meant they weren’t very experienced. Their boots scuffed through the leaves. One of them stepped on a twig and broke it with a loud snap.

It sounded like there were two of them. Maybe three.

Outlaws were always a risk in the woods. But she wasn’t afraid of them.

In truth, she felt sorry for them. Most of them were simply poor folk in a desperate situation. They had no coin. And no skills to make a living.