The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2) (11 page)

All these images and feelings danced around in my head, but in their center was the elephant in the room;
how different Samuel was in this lifetime than the other times I’d met him.

He seemed to be a bit of an entitled jerk in medieval Portugal. Perhaps it was a ruse to hide his true job as a Healer from those who might be out to get him: people who might believe that a Healer meant they were a witch, a warlock, or demonically possessed. Ignorant or simply fearful people might seek to punish or kill Samuel for the ‘crime’ of being a Healer.
 

That had to be it: Samuel just didn’t trust me enough yet to reveal his true nature.
 
I hoped that the passing of hours and days would change that, but then again, that would probably depend on how much time I was to spend here. And frankly, I wasn’t skilled enough yet as a Messenger to know, let alone control this.

Ryan had instructed me in our ‘lessons’ that the more frequently I time traveled—the more I’d be able to control my visits: how to recognize the real messages I was supposed to give, as well as how to leave with volition when things got too dicey.
 

But Ryan and I both knew that I just wasn’t there yet. I was new to slipping through time’s fabric and traveling hundreds of years to strange places. I was not an expert. The mini trips I took during our training exercises were nothing compared to this.

Samuel and I crossed a few small streams. The horse flinched at each one—as did I—before he gingerly placed his enormous hooves into the water. But when we approached a medium-sized river with rolling waters and wicked looking stones that jutted out from the riverbed, Bag neighed and backed away from the waters’ edge, practically dug his hooves into the earth, and I swear he harrumphed as he refused to move on the sloped riverbank.

“Can’t we cross the river where it is more narrow?” I asked as the memories of me almost drowning popped into my head, and my throat tightened from my anxiety and made me a little lightheaded.
 

Xanax, Xanax—where was my spare stash of Xanax?
 

I dug into my skirts but found only a few breadcrumbs from breakfast. My heart raced, my breath a little ragged and numbness poured down through my body like I’d been doused with a bucket of chilly water. I clung even tighter to Samuel.
 

“Nadja.” He sighed. “This is the best place to cross. It might appear dangerous, but except for a few riptides and sinkholes, it is not. The horse is scared for reasons we cannot fathom.”

“I agree with the horse,” I said. “This place looks scary to me as well.”

“I have to return to the castle soon, or my absence will be noted.” Samuel prodded Bag-of-Bones with his heels. “I do not desire extra attention right now.”

Finally, Bag just picked up his feet and trotted across the river as quickly as he could. I squeezed my eyes shut and reminded myself:
water does not always have to kill you, Madeline.
Just like heights don’t always have to kill you. Fear just seemed to transfer to those folks who suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Fear of heights became fear of water that turned into—what was next?
 

What if Samuel and I returned to Coimbra and King Afonso or Ratface identified me from last night? Would they want to kill me as well? Actually, the better question would be—
why wouldn’t they?
Someone had already poisoned the older gypsy man as well as the girl named Nadja.
 

King Afonso’s castle was obviously a place filled with deception and treachery. All it would take would be one idiot with a knife, in a poorly lit corner in a medieval hallway, and I would be history. When it dawned on me, I might stay alive for a while longer if I stayed close to Samuel—
like super close.
 

Hmm. He had been sweet to me even though he wasn’t the sweetest of guys. I wasn’t about to trade sex for favors. That just wasn’t me, but I could be his servant. I could… do his laundry? Pour his goblets of wine. In return he could protect me. He would keep me alive. He was, after all, still my Samuel.
 

I spotted a small city in the distance. “Coimbra?” I asked.

“You have been gone for so long you do not remember?” Samuel asked.

“Of course I remember.” I frowned.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Maybe I’m simply tired.” I was emotionally wrecked and physically exhausted, but I had to pull it together. My message for Inêz failed. Was I supposed to deliver a message to someone else? I needed to stay alive and sticking close to Samuel sounded like a plan. I wrapped my arms around his waist a little tighter and I couldn’t help but take in the scent of his neck—musky, raw, sexy…

When Samuel abruptly pulled up Bag-of-Bones behind a grove of trees a ways outside the castle walls.

“Why are we stopping?” I looked around. “Are we in danger? Do we need to hide again?”
 

“In a way, yes.” He descended from the horse, held out his hand to me, and helped me dismount.
 

I stood next to him and ran my fingers through my hair that had escaped its netting and fell in loose waves down my back. “What’s it this time, Samuel? Nobles who want to poison and kill us? Or maybe just grope me.”

“You are excluding me? Perhaps they want to grope me as well.” He grinned.

I smiled. “Stop it—seriously. I need to know what we’re doing so I better know how to handle this.”
 

He turned away and stared at the castle in the distance. “
I
need to know how to handle this.
Because in God’s truth?
I’ve never seen or met you before last night, Nadja, but in less than a day, we have experienced adventure and epic tragedy. Where do you come from?”

And here we go with the never-ending questions:
“Where do you come from?” “Who are you? “Why are you acting so differently?”
Because when you’re a time traveling Messenger, you can’t just tell people the truth right away
. They’ll declare you insane, lock you up, or kill you.
And let’s talk about another skill you have to get good at when you become a Messenger. On the spot, ninety-eight-percent believable
, bold-faced-lying.
 

“It must be obvious to you that I am a gypsy,” I said.

“Yes, I know. Your name gave it away. Everyone knows gypsies can be loyal messengers or servants.” Samuel pulled out a flask, uncorked the top, and held it out to me.

I took a swig and then grimaced when I realized I was drinking wine—not water. I spit it out and handed the flask back to him.

“A waste.” Samuel slugged back a mouthful. “Gypsies are known for delivering messages from royal to royal. But your people are notorious for being thieves, spies, and even witches. Which kind of gypsy are you, Nadja? Why did you care about Inêz? What is in this for you?” He pushed the cork back in the flask and tucked it into his waistband.

“What do you mean, ‘What’s in this for me?’” I jammed my hands onto my hips and glared at him as he paced in front of me.

He stopped and eyed me. “Gypsy help and messages do not come freely. There is always a price. What is your price, Nadja? How many coins do you need to make you feel whole?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I don’t have a price. A dying man instructed me to deliver a message to Inêz that might save her life. You helped me, but we were too late. I’m devastated that we didn’t reach her in time.”

“So devastated that you took her children to a different room and cared for them while she suffered a brutal death. You did not see Inêz’s body, Nadja, but I did. Her spirit had already left her body that was not a pretty sight: her throat was sliced all the way to the bony bits of the vertebra in her neck, and her head almost severed from her body. I saw the bloody defensive wounds on her hands and arms.”

“Oh my God.” My eyes welled with tears. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t know that you—”

“I know,” he said. “Because you were busy protecting the children. Perhaps an advisor to the King Afonso paid you to do that?” Samuel asked. “Or do you work directly for one of the assassins?”

“You do not—how dare you!” I reached to slap him but he caught my wrist in his hand, and I struggled against him. “I lost my mama when I was young and I know first-hand how Inez’s children will suffer, you arrogant jerk.
No one
paid me to take care of her kids. Let me go!”

He did.

I shook out my hand. “We might have arrived too late to save Inêz, but at least we managed to give two of her children shelter. John will never get over what he saw. I cannot even image what Prince Pedro will feel once he finds out. But I need to know what happens when we get back there.” I jabbed my finger in the direction of Coimbra.

“Why?” he asked.

My face flushed. “I fear King Afonso’s advisors will try and kill me. But if I am with you—if I am your…
servant girl
? Perhaps they’ll have second thoughts before they try and hurt me. Maybe you can help keep me alive until—”

“No.” He pushed me away, paced, and frowned so hard the muscles in his jaw twitched. “No. I cannot.”
 

I shoved my fists on either side of my waist. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“If I am seen at King Afonso’s castle
with you
? One of the King’s advisors will eventually remember that
we were both
at Prince Pedro’s villa the night Inêz was killed. And then they will confer, make conclusions, and panic that there was a greater reason we were together, other than chance, and hire an assassin to kill the both of us.”
 

“But you will tell them they are wrong,” I said. “Because you are a lord and they will believe you.”

“The King’s advisors are much older than I, Nadja. They are more respected. One or the both of us will end up with our pretty young necks slit and our blood staining the stones on which our dead bodies lie.” Samuel climbed back up on Bag-of-Bones. “The only way we can survive this political and personal monstrosity is if we stay apart. Have no contact.”

“Fine. I’ll pretend I don’t know you when we get back to Coimbra.” I glared at him and held out my hand. “Come on. Help me up.”

He shook his head.
 

My heart sunk. “You’re not going to take me to Coimbra? You’re abandoning me in the middle of frigging nowhere?” I looked around. No people. No road in sight. Just rolling hills. “After all we’ve been through—I can’t believe it!”

“Nadja.” Samuel nudged his heels onto the horse’s flanks. “It is for the best for the both of us. I would rather gaze at you from across a palace room, than watch the King’s servants toss your body onto the rotting pile of corpses in a shallow gypsy grave.”

“But! But!” I said.
 

“Someday you will thank me. This is for our safety.” He threw me a kiss and rode off.

“But, how am I to get back to Coimbra?” I was a heartbeat away from bursting into tears. I dug deep and told myself to chill out, calm down, it would be okay, and for God’s sakes, don’t become a big crybaby now.

Samuel turned toward me. “On foot, Nadja. King Afonso’s castle is only a few hours walk away. You will be back to Coimbra and the safety of your people well before night falls.”

Super. Absolutely great. Because I couldn’t tell Samuel that
I didn’t have people
. I only had people who knew Nadja. Not me.
And except for him, right now, I was on my own.
Which scared the crap out of me.

“Come here,” he said and gestured with one hand to me.

Perhaps he realized he was being stubborn and wrong.
“Yes?” I approached him.
 

“Take this. I think you need it more than I right now.” He tossed the kitchen knife onto the ground. “I am sorry I cannot further help you.” He flicked the reins as he and Bag-of Bones-trotted, and then cantered off without me.

~ thirteen ~

And thank you, jerk,
I thought as I hiked up another hilly meadow not even bothering to hold my skirts above the ground. Thank you so very much for being exactly what I did not need you to be in this, or, any lifetime.
 

Where was the kind version of Samuel I met in King Philip’s War, during my first time travel? Where was the nonchalant, but caring Samuel I met in present-day Chicago? Obviously, not here in medieval Portugal. Apparently during this lifetime, I got to meet the rush-to-the-rescue, then couldn’t commit, something-of-a-wino, Samuel. Oh, lucky me.
 

I trudged through the hills leading to Coimbra and eventually found a skinny, muddy path. After a half-mile or so, it became wider and a few similarly attired folks joined me. Most appeared weary and bedraggled as they carried loads of packages and led their goats, cows, and/or children. A few rode in carts and slapped reigns on the ponies that pulled them.

“Nadja!” A feminine voice called to me. “Nadja!” A short, young woman hustled up to me wearing a dose of concern on her pretty, flushed face. “Where have you been? I was so worried about you. Did you hear that Durril died? The herbalist said he was poisoned. I cannot believe someone murdered him. But then again, I can believe it because he was always snooping around or spying on somebody. He even caught me kissing Octavio once and questioned my morals. He had the audacity to ask me if I still had my maiden—”

“Yes, yes,” I said, not really wanting to hear about her private parts.
 

“Well, absolutely I still have my maiden—”

“I totally believe you!”

“And then you went missing. Where have you been?” She tugged on my sleeve.

“Why did the herbalist think Durril was murdered?” I asked.
 
If I could just keep her talking—which probably wouldn’t be all that difficult—I could most likely discover her name.

“The very un-natural color of his tongue.” She looped her arm around mine and we made our way down the road as the castle loomed in the near distance in front of us. “And the stink of mandrake that rose from his rigid lips. What are you doing out here? I thought you were working inside the palace of King Afonso?” She asked. “That is so exciting! So much better than working in our part of town. It is not easy wringing chicken necks, plucking their feathers, and cutting off their almost brainless heads. I hate my job. Why did I have to be born into the family of a butcher?”