Page 21 of Laird of Smoke
“Ye were posin’ as a beggar.”
“But I wasn’t beggin’,” he pointed out.“What about ye?Ye took that silver medallion at the tourney.”
Her eyes widened.“Iearnedthat silver medallion.”Too late, she realized he’d trapped her into confessing she was the archer.
He grinned.“Fair enough.”
Then she realized he was teasing her as well.That amused her.The man might well be an outlaw.He might be a spy.He might be an exile.A mercenary.Or an agent of the Devil.But he had a ready wit and a good sense of humor.
“So,” he asked, clearly digging for information again, “where did ye learn to shoot like that?”
She wasn’t going to fall for his tactics.“Where did ye learn to wield a sword?”
His low laughter resonated in her ears like the soft, soothing bells of Mass.
A contented smile tugged at the corners of her lips as they continued down the road.As long as she could keep from losing herself in his enthralling eyes, the “master of disguise” was proving to be good company.He was carrying her satchel, for one thing.He was also bright.Entertaining.And friendly.With a streak of mischief.She was still fairly certain he was an outlaw of some kind.But she almost believed hehadfollowed her to offer his protection.Almost.
“Ye’re quite good, ye know,” he told her.“Ye have a talent for disguises.O’ course, ye couldn’t fool me.I’d recognize ye anywhere.”
Taken aback, she frowned.“Ye would?”
“Och aye.Who could not?”
She stopped in her tracks.“Everyone.No one sees me.I’m practically invisible.”
“Invisible?”he exclaimed.“Surely ye jest.I mean, your costumes are well-crafted.But the maid behind the mask?Unforgettable.”
Her heart fluttered.Against her better judgment, she searched his eyes.She realized he was telling the truth.“Ye saw me,” she said in wonder.“No one’s e’erseenme before.”
His gaze softened in the moonlight, warming her to her toes.“I find that hard to believe.”
“’Tis true.”Her words came out on a breathless whisper.
Then she got that dizzy sensation again.That dangerous feeling.As if she’d drunk too much ale and her knees might collapse beneath her.
She gulped and tore her gaze away, vowing not to look at him again.Then she continued down the road.
As he walked beside her, he asked, “The real question is, how did ye recognizeme?”
Despite averting her gaze, visions of his features flashed through her mind’s eye.Where could she begin?Because he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen?Striking?Magnificent?Breathtaking?Because he had a smile that was charming and disarming?Because he had deep, penetrating, soul-searing eyes?
She wasn’t going to tell him that.She’d only get herself into trouble.
“Your features are…” What was a neutral word?“Distinctive.Unique.Memorable.”
“Memorable?”Adam echoed.
No one had ever told him he was memorable.Indeed, the reason he’d embarked upon a life of subterfuge was because he was sounmemorable.Now, for the first time in years, he felt… What word had she used?Seen.
“Oh aye,” she assured him.“Ye see, when ye’re like me—ordinary, pale, brown-haired, brown-eyed, plain o’ face—’tis far easier to slip through a crowd unseen and—”
He rounded on her, incredulous.“Plain o’ face?”
Surely she was jesting with him.Or maybe fishing for praise.
But when he looked into her lovely face—at her tempting lips, the delightful sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the tendrils of her lush hair curling upon her cheek, the dark, inviting pools of her eyes—he saw only sincerity.
“How can ye think ye’re plain o’ face?”he asked.
