So when he stepped past her place of hiding, she sprang out, shouting, “Off with ye!”
To her astonishment, he wasn’t all that surprised.He blinked a few times.But he wasn’t frightened off at all.
Perhaps he was simpleminded.Perhaps he’d only followed her the way a duckling follows its mother.
Still, she didn’t want him tagging along behind her.She led a clandestine life.She couldn’t afford to interact with strangers.
To make her point clear, she furrowed her brows and in her best Irish accent, bit out, “Leave me be, sirrah.”
He only stared, seeming not to understand.
Then she noticed his beard was drooping oddly from his chin on one side.
It wasn’t real, she realized.
The knave was wearing a disguise.
She’d worn such fake beards twice before.Once when she’d posed as Mahmud the Arab spice trader.And once as King Arthur of Tintagel’s bastard son.
With a gleam of revelation in her eyes, she reached up and gave it a sharp yank.
The man cried out in pain and surprise as the beard tore off his chin, plopping onto the palm of her hand like a fat, furry squirrel.
She beamed at him in triumph, anticipating his look of outrage.
But it was she who was astonished.
“Ye,” she breathed, searching his vibrant brown eyes.It was him.He was the Pope’s emissary.Andthe knight.“’Tis ye.”
Adam paled.
His skin stung where she’d ripped the beard away.And now she knew his secret.
But how had she recognized him?His disguises were unparalleled.He’d never been unmasked before.Never.Not even by his own kin.
“How did you…?”he began.But he remembered he had a more pressing matter to address.“You’re that archer.”
Her face betrayed no emotion.“Archer?What archer?”
He narrowed his eyes, searching hers for a glimmer of deception.There was none.
Was he wrong?Did she only look similar to the archer?The archer had been from Rouen.This lass had a distinctly Irish lilt to her voice.
Then he remembered.“And the nun.”
She held his gaze.“Me?A nun?Ye must have me confused with someone else.”
Adam frowned.He could usually tell when a woman was telling a lie.They glanced away.Or licked their lips.Or fussed with their sleeve.
This woman did nothing.She looked at him directly, without artifice, as if she were telling him God’s truth.
“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.
