The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2) (14 page)

“Perhaps he does,
but I do not.”
Prince Pedro stopped picking his nails. “My father and his advisors will pay dearly for killing Inêz.” He stood up. “The whole God-forsaken royal court of Portugal will bleed for murdering my beloved.” He flung his knife across the room and it impaled into the massive wooden door. He dropped back into his chair and sobbed, and tore at his hair. “I should have been there. What was I thinking leaving them? I should have been there. This is all my fault.”
 

I stared at the dagger; its handle quivering in the door, and then gazed at Prince Pedro with sympathy. He was a mess
.

But, enough with the knives already.
Did every medieval man need to display his alpha behavior with a knife? And I realized that this was still better than present day—because in present day, their weapons wouldn’t be knives
—they would be guns.

I shivered, slammed my eyelids shut, and pretended to still be asleep; drugged, dead, whatever. I’d play possum and figure out my next move, which would be how best to get out of here—
wherever here was.

A woman whispered, “I know you are awake, Nadja, and I know you are frightened. But you need to tell Prince Pedro and his friends the truth. If you do, they will let you go. I made them swear this before God, when Jorge first brought you here.”

I peeked out of one eye and spotted Sister Cecilia, the nun who picked up Inêz and Prince Pedro’s children from the villa, seated on a stool next to my bed. She smiled and held out a goblet. “Drink. Do you need help sitting up?”
 

“No, thank you.” I scooched halfway up the oh-so-cushy bed, accepted the cup, guzzled cool wine, and handed it back to her. My head was pounding and I was half tempted to inquire if she had any Advil. “Do you have anything non-alcoholic? Like water, or tea?”

“You know better than to drink the water; it usually makes one sick.” She snapped her fingers at another young woman clad in similar drab robes. “Sister Ana? Fetch us tea, please.”

“Yes, Sister Cecilia.” She scurried away.

“Great,” I said. “Thank you. How are the kids, I-mean children, doing?”

Sister Cecilia frowned. “They are as well as can be expected. Beatrice and Denis follow us around the monastery and help out with chores. John is not so good. He witnessed his mama’s murder and he will not talk.”

“He won’t talk about what he saw?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He will not talk at all.”

I winced. “I lost my mama when I was young. It scarred me, changed my life. I fear John will be damaged as well.”

Sister Cecilia nodded. “We say prayers for him every night. Sister Ana sleeps on a cot next to his bed. When he cries out from the nightmares, she wakes him, wipes the sweat from his brow, and reminds him that he is loved and protected.”

Sister Ana returned with a steaming cup of a blackish brew and handed it to me. “Thank you for helping John.” I took a sip.
 

“Oh, Nadja. Sometimes I believe God chose me to help him heal,” she said.

I practically did a double take. Sister Ana met my gaze and I could almost feel a similar fierce determination that used to roll off Samuel in 1675. But, Ana wasn’t targeting me directly: I was just drive-by. She was most likely destined to be John’s Healer. Which made me realize that these two souls would most likely be chasing each other through lifetimes as well.
 

Was John, the damaged child of Inêz and Prince Pedro, meant to be a Messenger as well? Which begged another question—did every Messenger have to endure losing a parent in a dreadful way when they were children? Why would the gods be so cruel as to set such harsh standards?

It was too much to think about. Too much, right now, for my brain to handle.
Get a grip, Madeline. Deal with your present, even though right now, your present is actually in the past.

I sipped the hot herbal concoction. It was bitter and I shoved back a frown.
 

“Healing and delicious, yes?” Sister Cecilia asked.

“Absolutely.” I looked at the bottom of the cup where the blackish tinted herbs sat. God knows what I’d just imbibed, but it probably wasn’t anymore toxic than diet cola. I hoped whatever Jorge drugged me with would wash out of my system quickly with no permanent side effects. I peered up at Sister Cecilia. “
Where am I?
Am I in trouble? Is Miri okay? What happened to me—”

“The girl is awake.” Prince Pedro strode across the room, stopped next to the bed, and glared down at me. He looked like the handsome hero Aragorn, from
Lord of the Rings
. I was half-tempted to pretend to faint or make a run for it. But I reminded myself
I was a Messenger
, which meant I couldn’t give in to every ridiculous fear. I had to be strong—
or at least fake it.

My heart fluttered, and I clasped my hands together to hide their trembling. I met his gaze head-on. “Yes, I’m awake. I’ve got a question for you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You, have a question,
for me?”

“Yes. What kind of man drugs a servant girl, kidnaps her, and transports her to a strange location? I heard you were a Prince. This type of behavior doesn’t seem very princely. It actually makes you look like a common criminal or a desperate peasant thug.
 

“Oh, Mother Mary,” Sister Cecilia mumbled and crossed herself.

“You believe I am a—
thug?
” Prince Pedro stared at me strangely.

“If the shoe fits,” I said.

He glanced down at his feet, perplexed, and tapped one shoe on the floor. “I do not know what the word, thug, means.”

“Thug… a criminal, a common low-life thief who commits crimes,” I said.

Seriously, someone should have written the time traveler’s thesaurus
—‘How to find the perfect word for whatever year and culture you travel to.’
 

“I am heartbroken for you, Your Highness, and so incredibly sorry for your loss. But I need to know if you plan on taking out your revenge on me? Because last night—one of your buddies—” I jabbed my finger at Jorge who eyed us from across the room. “He drugged, kidnapped, and brought me here against my wishes. I’ve done
nothing
wrong. I don’t know
anything.
You have the wrong girl!”

Prince Pedro shook his head and asked, “Might I see your hand?”

~ sixteen ~

Oh, crap. Why did he want to see my hand? Was he going to break it, cut it off, or gnaw on my pork-scented fingers?

I held it out to him.
 

He took it, slowly, gently, and held it carefully in his large one, like mine was delicate and fragile. He stared at it, almost transfixed, and I couldn’t help but do the same.

This was not the pretty manicured hand that I had when I left Chicago over a week ago. This hand trembled, sported bruises, and blisters from the kitchen work. My fingers were dirty and my nails were bitten to the quick.

Prince Pedro stroked the back of my hand, not creepy like some middle-aged dude hitting on me; more like something my dad would do to calm me down or comfort me. My negative opinion of him wavered, and my cold, guarded heart melted just a bit in his calloused, strong palm.

“My soldiers and friends arrived at my villa the day after my Inêz was murdered.” Prince Pedro sat down on the bed next to me. “They told me about a servant girl who waited on them. Lord Samuel De Rocha stated this girl cared for and even protected my children on that cursed night. You are young, and I do not know if you understand what it feels like to lose your soul, to lose your heart.”

The problem was—
I knew exactly what that felt like.
I bit my lip.

“Your whole life lies in front of you,” Prince Pedro said. “When you become my age, you are very attached to people. And if you lose those people your reason for living disappears. Your way just… vanishes.”

I thought of my mama. “I know what that feels like.”
 

“Inêz was my way,” Prince Pedro said. “I need to know
—are you that girl who saved my children?”

I yanked my hand from his and pulled the covers closer to my chin.
 

Sister Cecilia muttered words from the Hail Mary rosary, squeezed her eyes shut, and rapidly clicked rosary beads between her fingers.
 

“I was there. I tried to help.”

Prince Pedro’s eyes were bloodshot, his gaze so intense. “What is your name?”

“Nadja,” I said.

“Nadja. If you saw or know of anything that happened at my estate the night Inêz was killed—I need to know.”

“Um…” I totally wished I could dive under the covers or travel in time to any place but here.
 

“And I need to know not in a year, and not in six months, because I have decisions I must make, and steps to take. Therefore, I need your answer—
now
. Because before God, as well as all the saints and the kings who came before me, and those who will live and reign after me—I
must
punish those people who killed my beloved Inêz; who deprived my children of their mother. I will torture those people who murdered my dreams
. I will make them bleed.”
 

His eyes looked so crazy and for a moment, I feared he was going to slap me. But then his countenance morphed from scary to benign. He smiled, reached one hand toward my face, and gently tucked an errant wisp of hair behind my ear. “What is your father like, Nadja? Do you love him?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, yes! I love him so much. He’s funny and opinionated. He’s overly protective, and a bit of a hippie. He’s like the best dad ever. After Mama disappeared, he waited years before he started dating again. Finally, he fell in love with someone new and he married her. Sophie is sweet and…” I realized I was babbling and probably sounded crazy, or as Miri put it—
frigging
. “I do miss my dad.” I blinked away a few tears. “I miss him so very much.”

“Why do you miss your father and your family, Nadja?” Prince Pedro asked. “Have they passed on? Do they live far away?”

If only he knew the truth…

“They live very far away,” I said. “I’m hoping one day, soon, I will be re-united with them.”

“So, can you understand why I am torn about going to war with my own father?”

I nodded.

“As a child,” Prince Pedro said, “I sat on my papa’s lap while he told me stories about life at royal court. King Afonso taught me to hunt, trained me to be a soldier, and even bought me my first whore to officially make me a man.”

I stuck out my chin, defiantly. “My dad took me to a Prince concert at Alpine Valley when I was fourteen.”
 

“You had an audience with royalty, did you.” Prince Pedro placed his calloused hand under my chin and gently drew my face toward his until we were simply inches apart, and our eyes locked. “You are a gypsy, yes, Nadja?”
 

I smelled his breath, his sweat. A few tears leaked from his weary, bloodshot eyes. So I lied. “Yes.”
 

“Then, you know that gypsies are nobility’s most important messengers. Your people, your tribe: they are the ears and eyes for those of us trapped in gilded castles and cages. Everything you see, everything you witnessed?”

I nodded.

His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, “You can be my eyes and my ears. You can be the one who will bring me the messages I so desperately need right now. The messages I need to make decisions.”

“Oh.” I nodded, completely confused. But I wondered. Was this the reason I was here? Was I meant to deliver messages to Prince Pedro?
Was I supposed to prevent a war?

When suddenly, there were loud voices and banging noises crashing through the main wooden door that Prince Pedro’s knife still resided in, breaking my bond with the crowned Prince of Portugal. Everyone’s gaze swiveled toward the entry.

“I must speak to His Highness,” a familiar male voice said. “And I must speak to him now.”

I shivered, because I knew exactly to whom that voice belonged.

“Who is it?” Prince Pedro asked.

“No one important,” Fernando said.

“I beg to differ,” Jorge said. “It is Lord Samuel De Rocha. He was present the night Inêz was—”

“I know.” Prince Pedro held up one hand. “Jorge, I thought you already questioned Lord De Rocha.”

“I did. I believe he told me everything that happened, all the details, which I already shared with you. He stated that he was on his way back to his family’s estate on a matter of urgent business.”

“Apparently not because he is here.” Prince Pedro nodded at the door.

 
Jorge walked to it and peered at the soldier who guarded it. “Has he been searched?”

“Yes, Captain,” the guard said.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Jorge asked. “Let him in.”

The guard unlatched the door and pulled it opened. The hinges creaked in protest as Samuel strode inside.
 

He took one long look at me, in bed with the crowned prince of Portugal seated next to me, and froze in his tracks. “The gypsy girl knows nothing,” Samuel said. “I already told Captain Jorge that I found her in the pantry, guarding your children, Your Highness.”

“A pleasure to see you as well, Lord Samuel,” Jorge said. “What became of your urgent family business?”

“What became of it,” Samuel said, “was being way-laid by a plump, screaming, kitchen maid who said her best friend was kidnapped by a man who fits your description, Captain.”

“You accuse me of kidnapping?” Jorge asked.

Samuel stared at a spot of sunlight on the floor as the muscles in his jaw twitched. “I accuse you of nothing, Captain. I simply want her returned to me, released into my care—unharmed.”

“Well, you
should
accuse Jorge of kidnapping the girl,” Prince Pedro said. “Because it is quite obvious to everybody, including me, that he did.”

“The girl has a name,” I tentatively waved one hand in the air. “It’s Nadja.”
 

Sister Cecilia’s face blanched. “Be quiet!” she hissed.

Prince Pedro burst out laughing. “This is the
second
worst day of my life—but a simple servant,” he glanced at me, “I am so sorry—
Nadja—
made me laugh. Never in a thousand years would I have dreamt this possible.” He guffawed.