Page 4 of Laird of Smoke
It was an unspeakably selfish thought.She knew that.Selfish and unworthy of her station as a nun.The abbess had even told her so.But she’d always had a hard time controlling her wayward thoughts.
Like the wayward thoughts she was having now as she let her gaze course down the monk’s impressive form.
His cassock, belted below his waist, clung to his narrow hips and trim buttocks.The powerful gestures he made as he spoke to the lairds belied the sedentary life of a monk.His hands were muscular, closing into fists and then opening with strength and grace.He held one commanding finger aloft to make a point.Then he clasped his hands together like a warrior celebrating his victory.
She could imagine those manly fingers running through her hair…caressing her cheek…brushing her lips…
She started as he turned to follow the lairds, across the bridge from the bailey to the motte.Of course.King Malcolm wasn’t coming tothem.He’d naturally conduct negotiations privately, in the comfort of his keep.A place a mere nun couldn’t follow.No matter how invisible she was.
Shite.
She’d hoped to make the acquaintance of the Pope’s representative.After all, he was an important man in the church.
She frowned.
Then she straightened with determination.She could fix this.
She’d simply wait for him to emerge, she decided, and strike up a conversation with him.Inquire about some biblical interpretation or request moral direction.Before they parted, she’d whisper her name in his ear and ask him to pass it along to the Pope.Perhaps, with holy guidance from on high, Eve could find her Greater Purpose.
It was a worthy notion.
However, her plans to wait patiently among the pavilions were foiled when a contingent of Rivenlochs suddenly arrived.
Sweet Saints!Had they followed her?
Eve dared not let them see her.Any of the Rivenloch clanfolk might recognize her.She was the nun who’d been at Darragh Castle for the clan wedding, after all—right before Sir Gellir’s betrothed had mysteriously disappeared.
Nuns might be invisible, but the Rivenlochs were clever and discerning.With the exception of Sir Hew, of course.Hew, not realizing Eve was a nun, had once tried to court her.
In any event, she needed to slip out of sight and watch from afar.
The worst thing about being a Rivenloch, Adam decided, was the visibility.
The clan was so well-known, it was nigh impossible for a Rivenloch man to blink an eye without someone reporting it to the town crier.
Yet, despite being the nephew of the laird, Adam la Nuit had somehow escaped the curse of Rivenloch fame.His cousins and even his sister were renown for their words and deeds.But no one really saw or remembered Adam.Which was how he was able to pose as the emissary of the Pope.
He supposed any other man would have been shaking in his boots to commit such sacrilege.
But Adam wasn’t afraid.Situations like this seldom frightened him.Indeed, his unflappable nature made his Rivenloch kin assume he was fearless.
That wasn’t quite true.
There were things Adam feared.Rabid wolves.Debilitating sickness.Being permanently marked by a scar that would make him forever identifiable.
But feigning to be the messenger of the Pope?That didn’t scare him.
After all, he reasoned, no one in Scotland knew what the Pope’s emissaries looked like.If indeed the Pope evenhadsuch emissaries.
Adam spoke passable Latin, and he could feign a respectable Roman accent.
Besides, he’d played lofty roles before.The French artist Godefroid de Claire.The German Minnesänger Meinloh von Sevelingen.The mystic Hildegard of Bingen.To obtain free lodging, he’d once posed as the right hand man of young King Malcolm himself, while his cousin Brand pretended to be the king.
Adam was confident of his skills.He was a good mimic.He had a forgettable face.And it didn’t hurt that he was the son of spies.No doubt Lady Miriel and Sir Rand had passed on to him their natural talents for stealth and secrecy.
Of course, he’d met King Malcolm before—as himself, Sir Adam la Nuit of Rivenloch.The Rivenlochs were some of the king’s most loyal and valuable vassals.They’d protected Scotland’s southern border for centuries.
But garbed as a monk in holy robes?The king failed to recognize Adam, even in the close quarters of his great hall.
