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

by Pamela DuMond

“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 l
ifetime, 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?”

  “I’m sorry.” I squeezed her arm.

  “Better than sorry would be finding me work in the palace kitchen. Get your oldest friend, your best friend, Miri, a job in the kitchen of King Afonso. I will cook stews. I will scrub pots. I will kill chickens. I would even—”

  “Miri, you already kill chickens and you hate it,” I said.

  “Killing chickens in the castle is a far cry from wringing their scrawny necks in a dank, dark place that smells of blood and piss.” She pouted.

  “I’ll lay odds the job description is the same at King Afonso’s kitchen,” I said as we approached the palace.

  “Blood and piss in a royal palace smell completely different than blood and piss in the gypsy slums.” Miri sighed. We stopped walking and she gazed up at the castle doors flanked by armed guards.

  I was tempted to tell her that spilled blood smelled the same whether one was rich or poor, in a pristine villa, or a less affluent neighborhood.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you,” I said.

  She jumped up and down and clapped her hands. I couldn’t help but smile. “What were you even thinking leaving here?” Miri asked.

  “Someone asked me to deliver a message. A simple errand,” I said. “Now I’m headed back to work.”

  “Oh, Nadja,” Miri said. “You must be so careful about delivering messages these days. The nobles want our services, but then panic if they do not hear the missive they desire. Then the gypsy who delivers an unpopular message loses his or her head, or is poisoned, or—oh my saints!” She pinched my arm and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is that what you think happened to Durril?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I am sorry that Durril died. Will there be services?”

  “Already happened.” She shrugged. “A few men dug up gypsy burial ground and pitched his body inside. The priest said mass for a few seconds and the men shoveled the dirt back on top. It was quick, but well attended—the exception being you. That is when I started to worry—I knew you would not miss that for the world.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” I suddenly realized that I didn’t want Miri to leave. She was a kind girl and seemed to like me—well, she liked Nadja. “I would love to work with you at the castle. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Miri jumped and clapped her hands. “Working at the palace would be the most exciting job ever!”

  I smiled. “Don’t get your hopes up yet, okay?”

  “But my hopes are very, very high! I knew you would not forget me when you rose to a higher station. Will I see you soon? I know; come visit our decrepit abode. Perhaps I can convince father to roast a rabbit in your honor.”

  “I would love that.” I smiled at her. Ryan’s Time Traveling Lesson #10: Make friends with the locals.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was back inside the confines of the palace and tried to fit in as I performed my duties as a kitchen attendant, a servant, and a ‘waitress.’

  Just like a bad case of poison ivy, the news spread quickly through the palace that thieving rogues had murdered Inêz, and her villa had been burglarized. According to the gossips, Prince Pedro and her children had been at a friend’s house when the deed was done. While King Afonso and Queen Beatrice were deeply saddened by the news, they felt very blessed that the children were un-harmed. Extra guards were stationed around the castle to heighten the sense of security. Everyone wondered what Prince Pedro was thinking but no one had actually heard from him.

  Because Durril had died, the castle kitchen was short-staffed and actually needed, of all people, a new butcher who could also cook. I sang Miri’s praises. She impressed the head middle-aged male chef with her skills—I didn’t ask in detail what that included—and she got the job.

  For nearly a week, Miri and I enjoyed working around each other. We giggled about the cute guys: noblemen as well as commoners. We gossiped about the other kitchen workers and the aristocrats we served: what they wore, whom they were dating, as well as their noble bling. I traded frivolous comments with Miri about which ring or dress I would like to wear while I silently worried about why I was really in Portugal. How could I discover my real message? And I never told her anything about Samuel.

  I’d see him in the palace’s dining area during parties and gatherings. He was still gorgeous. I dropped off food or beverages to him multiple times but he never met my glance or addressed me by my name, but strangely, he always thanked me.

  I’d bow my head, or curtsey, and say, “You are welcome, Lord De Rocha.” It was like we were playing a game of sorts. But I didn’t know who was winning.

  At night I shared a sleeping space with seven other servant girls in a tiny, low-ceilinged room that was tucked away down a skinny corridor a quick walking distance from the kitchen. I shared a thin pallet with Miri. When her nightly snoring woke me, I’d stare up at the ceiling and imagine Samuel and I together, under the stars, in the year 1675. When he was sweet as well as handsome, and when he remembered that he loved me.

  I’d close my eyes, roll onto my side, clamp one hand over my ear, and try to drown out Miri’s rumbles with memories of Samuel: his arms wrapped around me, his hand pushing back tendrils of my hair, the night he gave me the necklace that he had made for me. A totem necklace—the necklace designed specifically for one Messenger—me.

  A little over a week after I time traveled to King Afonso’s castle in Portugal, there was another party. Miri had butchered a few pigs and spent hours roasting them on spits. The grand hall was packed with nobles, a few commoners, guards, merchants, and servants. Beautiful young women wore gorgeous gowns and flirted with handsome young men who eyed them like they were delicious candy. Live music played.

  King Afonso sat at his table with his inner circle of finely attired guests—the exception being Rat-Face, also-known-as Alvaro. He was dressed in simple clothes that were more-than-a-little dirty, and chewed on a large piece of meat.

  A middle-aged, tired-looking woman sat at a table adjacent to Afonso’s. The King leaned between the tables toward her, took her bejeweled hand in his, and squeezed
it tenderly between his palms as he smiled at her.

  It was almost fairy-tale sweet. If I’d never witnessed the King’s coldness with Inêz and his grandchildren, I would have believed that he was simply a kind man: a ruler who was in love with his wife, the Queen, and throwing yet another royal party during an uneventful day.

  Miri kicked the back of my calf and I jumped. “Stop mooning over the King and the Queen and take this platter of pig to the guests.”

  “Stop kicking me and I will.” I took the platter from her, turned and spotted Samuel at a table a third of the way across the room. A very pretty girl wearing a silken gown sat so close to him on the bench, she was practically in his lap. She had porcelain skin and brilliant red hair—sections were braided and cascaded down the back of her fancy dress. She held his arm, leaned in, and whispered into his ear. Her boobs threatened to escape the confines of her tightly laced bodice and at least five guys in the near vicinity ogled them.

  I frowned. She looked awfully familiar—but I couldn’t place her. “Miri. Who is that girl?” I nodded my head in their direction. “The one with Lord Samuel?”

  “Lord Samuel De Rocha.” Miri fanned her sweaty face. “Now there is a fine example of a man if I do say so myself.” She peered up at me. “You fancy him?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “That would be ridiculous. We’re completely different.”

  “Lord De Rocha is a frequent visitor to the castle. You work at the castle.” Miri lifted one eyebrow. “Perhaps you run into each other—frequently. Horizontally.”

  “Miri!”

  “Oh, please. There is no harm in that.”

  “I’ve run into him on occasion, not horizontally, but there is nothing between—”

  “Right,” Miri said. “Just because you have different stations in life does not mean attraction cannot grow. I mean, just because I slaughter my fair share of animals, skewer them with rods, and baste them gently as they simmer over a fire pit does not mean I never covet a Lady’s pretty dress or desire the attentions of a handsome Lord.”