The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2) (9 page)

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“Perfect.” I strode to her, kneeled down, looked into her eyes and placed my hand on her cheek. “And then we will sing songs, and play games, and I will put them to bed.” I wiped away her tears with my thumb. “And tomorrow we will all wake up and begin another glorious day. Like we always do, yes?”

Inêz nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Children, go with our servant girl—”

“Please just call me Nadja—like the children do.” I held out my arms to her kids. “Come on! I think there are sweets waiting for you…”

“Thank you.” Inêz plucked her children’s small, chubby hands from her clothing. “Go to Nadja.” She kissed her daughter on her forehead. “Go, Beatrice. Watch after your brothers. You are the oldest.” She kissed Denis on his cheek and pushed him toward me. “Mama loves you and will see you later.”

I picked up Denis and cradled him tight against me with one arm while I squeezed Beatrice’s hand in mine. I beckoned to the boy who still clung to Inêz. “Come on! Let’s go eat something tasty and I will tell you fantastic stories by, oh, a fabulous story teller called Sir Seuss.”

He shook his head and pouted. “I’m staying with my mama.”

I eyed Inêz.
 

“John, go!” she said.

“I am not leaving you,” he said.
 

Inêz sighed and hugged him. “Thank you, Nadja for your service. You may leave.”

~ ten ~

I walked away from the villa’s living quarters and entered a corridor. “Where do you think the sweets are?” I asked Beatrice and Denis.

“There!” Denis pointed to a door.

I shepherded them into the kitchen and closed the door as firmly and solidly as I could. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter and covered it in the folds of my long skirt as I stationed myself with my back against the entry. “You can have whatever treats you like tonight.”

“Yay!” Denis and Beatrice exclaimed as they scrambled through the cupboards pulling out containers of honey, biscuits, and thick unsliced bread. This whole scene quickly became a floor picnic as they dipped hunks of fresh bread in honey and ate
 
with their fingers.

Moments later, I heard muffled screams and shouts. I could only assume they dragged Inêz out onto the terrace. I sang “Do-Re-Mi”
from the top of my lungs as I clattered pots and pans together, like an insane woman. I heard Inêz’s faint protests and cries and I winced. I found more sweets and staples to feed her kids and tried as hard as a circus clown to distract them from whatever atrocities were happening to their mother.
 

Inêz’s screams escalated to one soul piercing shriek and then abruptly—silence. Male voices conferred but I couldn’t make out actual words.
 

Beatrice and Denis were covered in honey and breadcrumbs as they sat on the kitchen floor and collapsed back against the low cabinets. Their eyes lowered, probably from the sugar shock and the fact that they were nodding off. I didn’t think they even registered their mother’s muffled shrieks.

I totally sucked as a Messenger and I felt like the worst person in the world. I could only hope that one day after I got over my abysmal heartache, perhaps I could score a job as a time traveling nanny.

I didn’t trust that Rat-face wouldn’t come back to finish off Inêz’s children or me. I didn’t dare try to escape with them from the estate because I had no idea where we should go. Who would offer us safety? I was the last person who knew the answer to that question. It also wasn’t the smartest idea to venture further into the villa for the same reasons.
 

So I held onto my knife while I explored the attached pantry, found a heap of rough burlap sacks, and tossed several of them onto the floor. I returned to the kitchen, lifted the kids one at a time in my arms, and carried and laid them gently on the sacks. I even found two bags of flour to scooch under their heads as makeshift pillows. There were no blankets so more burlap bags would be a substitute for tonight. I draped those over them and tried to tuck them in without waking them up.

I sat on the floor close by, watching over them, and clutched my weapon. I prayed that tonight’s slaughter was over and that some vengeful idiot would not try and break in here to harm Inêz’s children.

And I cried.
 

Because I knew that outside on the terrace, a young woman named Inêz lay butchered as the blood seeped from her body and congealed in stagnant pools around her. I cried because her children would never see their mama in this lifetime again. I cried for my own mother-less childhood as well as the unnecessary cruelty of man against man in the timeless quest for righteousness and power.
 

~ ~ ~

I must have been dozing off when a strange sound startled me, and I reflexively raised my knife. A muscular hand clamped over my mouth. Another latched onto my wrist and squeezed it until I dropped the blade, and it clattered onto the floor.
 

“Stop it, Nadja!” Samuel hissed. “It is only I. You know that I mean you no harm.”
 

He released me and I punched his solid muscular chest in anger and frustration.
 

“Ouch!” He grunted.
 

“How nice of you, Samuel,” I said, “to finally show up.”

“I had to wait until the King and his advisors left before I ventured onto the property,” he said.

“You mean King Afonso’s
assassins
,” I said. “What about Inêz? She’s dead, isn’t she?”
 

“Yes. I sent word to the Monastery of Santa Clara a Vel-ha. The nuns are already on their way to collect her body.”

“What of her son? The boy who stayed with her?” I whispered. “John?”

Samuel coughed. “After John witnessed her death, he raced off into the night. The few people who observed and lingered thereafter told me the King tried to stop him, even offered John solace and a place to stay. But he would not listen.”

“I would have run in the opposite direction as well. Oh, God. He will carry this forever,” I said. “John will blame himself
forever
.”

“I received word that he arrived at the home of a local friend. He is sedated, under the care of a healer, and will be transported to the monastery to be tended to by the nuns. Physically—he is okay. Emotionally? He is ripped.”

I inhaled sharply and peered at Samuel. He was a Healer when I met him in 1675. I had learned a little about Messengers, and Hunters, but not that much about Healers. Was Samuel meant to be a Healer in every lifetime? “Are
you
the Healer?
Is that why you were late getting here?”

“What makes you think I am a healer?” He shook his head. “I am nobility. I am a Lord. I ride horses, go hunting, attend parties, and meet pretty young women—like you. Someday I will inherit my father’s lands. I have no time to stoop to being a ‘healer.’”

I shook my head. The old Samuel was never arrogant. “What happened to you?”

“Who are you to even ask me that ridiculous question?” He glared at me.

“Right,” I said. “I’m just a gypsy girl. I am nobody. But Ms. Nobody still believes Inêz’s death was unnecessary. Wasted blood. Wasted lives. It makes me sick.” I peeked out the door into the kitchen and reached for the knife.
 

But Samuel snagged it from under my fingers. “I never believed killing Inêz was a smart solution.” He sat down on the floor near me and leaned back against a pantry, drying herbs and vegetables hung from the walls and cabinets overhead.
 

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. “I don’t understand?”

“Nothing more can be done tonight, Nadja. I doubt tomorrow will be an easy day. “Get some sleep. I am taking over your watch as sentry. I will guard you—all of you. It is the least I can do.”

“Okay. Fine.” I lay down on the pantry floor and wrapped my arm over the children, who stirred but did not wake. I peered up into his hazel eyes and wondered if the kind, beautiful, honest young man I’d met in two lifetimes still existed somewhere in this Samuel’s soul. I whispered, “Thank you.”

~ ~ ~

I woke up God-knows-how-many-hours later, bleary-eyed. It took me several moments to figure out why I was lying on a chilly stone floor, next to a sack of onions, huddled next to two sleeping children while a rooster crowed nearby. Was I dreaming? Was I back in King Philip’s War? Was I, perhaps, watching too much TV?

No.
 

I shook my head and realized I was still in medieval Portugal where I had tragically failed to deliver a message to a young woman that could have saved her life. Way to go, Madeline. You have learned so much. You are such a great Messenger
—not.
Waves of humiliation washed over me and I felt sick to my stomach.
 
A woman was dead because of me and I could practically hear the taunts in my head: ‘
You can never be a Messenger. We track and kill people like you, Madeline.”
That’s what the Hunter Tobias told me when he tried to kill me in the year 1675.
 

I squeezed my eyes shut and willed the negative voices to leave. Perhaps they’d never vanish, but maybe I could push them into the background, quiet them.

I gazed at Samuel who leaned against the doorframe, his eyes closed. He was sleeping—albeit fitfully. His eyes darted under his eyelids and he mumbled a few indecipherable words. I took this quiet window of time to just drink him in. He was still gorgeous—but there was something different about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
 

He definitely wasn’t the Samuel I met in 1675.
Nor was he the boy I met in present day Chicago. Samuel was still young, but his beautiful face sported the beginnings of worry lines: edges around his eyes, nose, and mouth that would most likely settle into creases from too much frowning, too many hard decisions, and perhaps too much partying. He looked a little worn, slightly weary for a young man who was supposed to be in his late teens.

Hushed, urgent whispering, as well as the creaking of the kitchen door opening interrupted my reverie. Crap! Who was invading our space, or worse, here to murder us? The nuns had already arrived in the middle of the night to collect Inêz’s body, cart her back to their monastery, and pray for her immortal soul. Had the assassins returned to take out her children? Was Rat-face with his knife about to creep into the pantry? “Samuel!” I hissed and tried to kick his leg.

A middle-aged woman wearing modest attire poked her head around the door. “Greetings! I hope I did not startle you. My name is Sister Cecilia of the Monastery of Santa Clara a Vel-ha.”
 

Samuel sprang to his feet and the kids blinked their eyes open.
 

“You remember me, right, Beatrice? I am a friend to your mama.” Sister Cecilia peered down at the girl.

Beatrice nodded, pushed herself to sitting, and rubbed the sleep bunnies from her eyes with her fists.

“The Sisters and I are here to take Beatrice and Denis to stay with us for a few nights until Prince Pedro returns from his trip,” Sister Cecilia said to me. “We will eat on the way back to the monastery. Thank you so much for helping—whoever you are.”
 

I nodded, but then wondered, “Do you have some kind of ID on you?”

“ID?” She asked.

“Identification. So I know that you’re really a Sister of the Monastery of Santa Clara.”

“I see,” she said. “You are a smart girl. Gypsy, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “ID please.”

“Ask me a question that a Sister consecrated in the Catholic Church would most likely know,” she said.

“Okay.” I thought for a few moments. “Tell me a few things-I-mean-tidbits about… Francis of Assisi.”

“Francis of Assisi was never ordained as an actual Catholic priest,” Sister Cecilia said. “However, in the year 1228, he was proclaimed a saint by Pope Gregory IX. He is honored as the patron saint of animals and the land.”
She peered at Samuel, did a double take, and curtsied. “My honor to see you, Lord De Rocha.”

“And you, Sister,” he said. “You sound like a nun to me.”

She covered a laugh. “Does that qualify as ‘ID’?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Sister Cecilia,” Samuel said. “Can we help you in any way?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you. Come with me.”

~ eleven ~

Samuel and I hoisted Beatrice and Denis onto the back of the Sister Cecilia’s open-aired cart. We loaded six trunks filled with Inêz’s favorite things that the Sister and her friends had rapidly packed.
 

Besides the grief hanging in the air was the overwhelming dilemma that no one knew how to contact Prince Pedro. He was off on a hunting trip. Indisposed.
 

Frankly, this was one of my major beefs about time traveling: there was no Internet, Google Maps, Facebook, cell phones, apps, etc. Time traveling is practically out of the nineteen fifties—except the dresses were usually prettier and the plumbing always worse.
 

How in the heck were we supposed to track down the Prince of Portugal to delicately tell him the love of his life was dead by his own father’s command. And oh, by the way, dude, your children are traumatized and you need to forgo the stag hunting, get your royal behind back here, and deal with this. Now.

There was no easy way.
 

Samuel said, “I apologize, Sister, but I must feed and water my horse.”
 

“Of course, Lord De Rocha.” Sister Cecilia bowed her head.

Samuel walked toward Bag-of-Bones.

“Nadja, you are a God-send.” She took my arm and peered into my face. “Speaking of religious matters, have you been baptized?”

“Why?”

“Not all of your kind have been baptized, yet, and I find it is my personal mission to help,” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Wait...” I remembered a weathered photo glued into my mama’s magical handbook. She and Dad stood next to a baptismal font while a woman in a long white robe and vestments dribbled water onto my head. I was a tiny baby, appeared to be crying, and didn’t look all that happy. “I’m going to say yes. I think I have been baptized. I remember the photo.”