Page 39 of Laird of Smoke
“No one paid much heed to me,” he admitted.“I was quiet.Well-behaved.I broke few rules.Ruffled no feathers.”
“Indeed?”Eve supposed she was a holy terror in contrast.She wasn’t exactly ill-behaved.Just wayward and curious, adventurous and enterprising.And she had definitely done her share of ruffling feathers.“Then how did you become the sort o’ man who dares to impersonate the emissary o’ the Pope?”
“How do ye know I’mnotthe emissary o’ the Pope?”
He was jesting with her, of course.Still, she wasn’t exactly sure who he was.And she really wanted to know.
“Do ye have any brothers or sisters?”she asked.
“Just ye and our two younger sisters, Blinne and Caitilin, aye?”
“Not Ronan,” she chided.“Ye.”
“Me?A few,” he said evasively.
“Older or younger?”
“Both.”
She had imagined he was the youngest, like her.She was sure that was part of the reason she felt unseen.Perhaps being in the middle made him feel invisible as well.
It was no secret that Eve had been a disappointment to her parents, simply by virtue of her birth.The last thing a clan with no sons wanted was a fifth daughter.
But what was his story?
“Why disguise yourself?”she asked.“Are ye in trouble with the law?”
“Me?I told ye, I’m not a feather ruffler.”
She wasn’t sure she believed that.Anyone who dared to confront the king dressed as the Pope’s emissary surely caused trouble once in a while.And he’d almost been beaten for carnal temptation at the priory.If that wasn’t ruffling feathers, she didn’t know what was.
“What about ye?”he asked.“Are ye a lawbreaker?”
“I told ye, I’m a runaway bride.”
“Ah, so ye said, but are ye truly Lady Aillenn?”He didn’t wait for her to answer.“’Tis yet to be determined.I’m not certain I’ve met the real woman yet.”
She didn’t reply.
He grinned.
As they walked on, her mind coiled around possibilities.
“Ye might be a mummer,” she considered.Troupes of mummers traveled from manor house to village square, performing raucous plays for coin.
He voiced no opinion on that, simply gazing down the road with a half smile on his face.
“Or maybe ye’re a tailor.That would explain how ye acquired all the clothin’.”
He acknowledged her guess with a nod, but neither confirmed or denied it.
“Though some o’ your clothin’ is so bedraggled, perhaps ye’re a rag-picker.”
“My clothin’ is not bedraggled,” he protested, spreading his arms to show her the cut of his dark blue surcoat.
Itwasvery high quality.His cap was rich velvet.His leine made of the finest linen.And the way his clothing hugged his masculine form…
She wouldn’t think of that.But if he hadn’t stolen the garments—and she still wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t a thief—they must have cost a wee fortune.
