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 tooktwopints 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.
Shehadto be the French archer, as wildly improbable as it seemed.Le Goupilhad won second place in the archery tournament.He…Shehad 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.
