"I know you lied."

Haytham Kenway had to seize hold of the gunnel railing to stop himself from leaping a foot into the air. Trying to draw composure in back in with a deep breath, he turned to look at Ziio, who looked back at him, deeply amused.

She was dressed in sailor's dungarees, her black braid hidden under a tricorn hat. As usual, her face was difficult to read, but Haytham could see a shine in her dark eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"One last adventure," she said with a shrug. Then she held open her vest to show an oilskin-bound portfolio. "A treaty. For your king."

"He's not my king," Haytham muttered, and sat down hard on the railing.

The ship yawed gently in the rolling waves, and the gulls wove through the rigging. They were only a day out of port, but that meant a full day in which he had been spied upon by this inscrutable woman without his ever once suspecting. It was a sharp lesson in his own fallibility.

"There were a dozen other vessels you might have booked passage on. But you knew I was on this one, didn't you?"

Ziio considered him, then looked out at the sailors as they tended the lines. A few of them fished over the bow. Their master was not a hard one, and their cargo was mainly timber. The vessel was named The Queen of Scots, which Haytham normally would have found inauspicious, but she had a reputation for seaworthiness and speed, so he hadn't bothered himself about it. Now, though, he thought he could taste ill-omen on the air.

"We should not speak here," Zio said, but her eyes lingered on the spread of the shining waters that encompassed them. She has never been this far out to sea, Haytham thought.

"Yes," he agreed. "It will be much easier for you to murder me in my quarters."

She gave him a little shove, and he smiled to himself as he caught his step.

The cabin was not uncomfortable. In fact, it was reasonably well appointed, occupying the lower aft deck. The room was furnished with bed, chair, desk and wardrobe. The light that came through the leaded windows was pleasant, much better than the travesty he'd come over in. He indicated the chair but Ziio sat down on the bed, sinking into the threadbare quilt.

"Nice," she said. "Better than the hammock over by the livestock."

"You may have it if you want," Haytham said with total insincerity. He was considering potential ways in which he might successfully jettison her from the ship without witnesses. He didn't take his eyes from her. If she did intend to kill him, he wanted to be ready.

"Why didn't you confront me before, if you knew about Braddock?" he said frankly.

"I'm not sure." She seemed thoughtful. Something of the warmth he'd found in her seemed to return with her words. "I didn't want it to be true. I thought I might be mistaken, but word came and I couldn't let it stand."

So unyielding. Haytham concealed his smile. She might have made a Templar, this hard one with her unshakable faith, misplaced though it was. He did not need to see the future to know neither of them would be able to halt the merciless greed of progress. The British Empire might relinquish America, but America in turn would not be restrained. He bit back those words as he had bitten them back before. He had enough humility to know it was not his place to discourage her from her mission. And the natives would need Ziio in the years to come. Now was not the time. He had left the chore of manipulating events to his cohorts. His errand now was personal, and was it not time to shed the mantel for a little while?

"It was not because I intended him to live," he said finally. "It was a matter of…protocol."

"Protocol." He could not tell if she was disbelieving or uncomprehending. Haytham sighed and worked the ring from his finger, and tossed it to her. She caught it and looked at it.

"The badge of my order. Braddock was a member before…he broke trust."

"No," she said, turning the ring in her fingers. "It's more than that. It was personal with you. You knew him."

He sighed. "I thought I knew him. I thought I knew him better. But he betrayed us."

"He betrayed you." her eyes were unblinking and her gaze did not yield.

"Yes. He betrayed me."

"You wanted him to suffer. You wanted to take this-" she flipped the ring back to him, and he caught it. "- while he was still alive to see you do it."

"Of course you're right." Haytham couldn't keep the bite of anger out of his voice.

"And in turn, you betray me."

"Ziio." He rose, but she held up a hand.

"You were not the only one with a score to settle. Braddock conspired to murder my people and steal our lands."

"I am aware-"

She raised a warning finger, and Haytham swallowed his words. She rose from the bed and took a step towards him. She was tall, but he was a head taller.

"It was stupid of you to lie to me, Haytham Kenway."

Her tone was mocking, but the mouth on his was warm.

Six Months Ago

"Not here." Her voice was breathless as she pushed him away.

"Why?" Haytham could feel the molocules of his flesh reaching for her.

"Not here. Come."

Ziio took his hand and led him out of the cave. Haytham didn't even spare a glance at the arcane gateway. His disappointment had been consumed by something less complicated and more primal.

"Ziio-" his words were cut off by the chill wind.

"Follow," she said. Her movements were so deft and practiced through the snow, and she wore only buckskin. Haytham felt overburdened by the red coat's uniform, but the cold cut right through it. Still, he followed her through the snow. Then over the ridge, and then…

"Ah."

Nestled in a cleft of the rock face was a fissure. Steam wafted from it, and even at a stone's throw the warmth beckoned him. Ziio smiled her rare, secret smile and he felt a sudden rush of affection for her. She let go of his hand as she plunged into the darkness, and he lost sight of her as he followed.

Then, a glare of light temporarily blinded him. He blinked spots away and saw her set the lantern down on the rocky shelf. The light illuminated the hot spring water, which looked like black, steaming glass. Ziio began to undress, unhurriedly and he wondered if it was for his benefit.

She was spare and lean, swathed in muscle. So very different from most of the women he'd known. Hard. Strong. Her skin was dusky, patterned with a constellation of dark freckles. She did not blush or demonstrate any sign of modesty as his eyes drank her in. Her breasts were small, dark at the nipples, but well formed. Between her legs the hair was also dark, but it looked soft. He wanted to touch it, feel the texture, and find the wetness there.

Her smile was knowing and her eyes laughed. "Take off your clothes."

"They're not really mine," he said as he acquiesced, stripping off the red coat and pulling at the stays of his shirt.

She approached him and helped lift it over his head. Her hands fell to his chest, appreciating the tooled muscle and finding the ridges and dents, relics of so many blows and cuts.

"A warrior without scars is no warrior," she said matter-of-factly.

"I don't see any on you," he teased.

She shrugged. "I'm faster than you."

She bent down and kissed the traces of scar tissue that zigged and zagged over his chest. Her mouth and hands were hot, and he could feel himself rising, feel his cock straining at his trousers. Her hands moved lower and started to work, unlacing him. The palm that cupped him was no virgin's hand, and Haytham nearly laughed at the total lack of importance. He'd had virgins as a young man, and whores, and even courtly ladies, but he'd never felt so electrified as he did now.

He reached for her, sliding one hand into her hair, his other finding its way between her legs, finding her wet. Her mouth was hot on his, her scent- like woodsmoke and buckskin and pine- filled his nostrils.

Together they sank down on to the red coat. Her hands splayed out on his chest as she lowered herself on to him. He shuddered as the heat of her enveloped his cock. He filled his hands with her breasts, then her hips. She seized one of his hands and laced her fingers through his as she began to ride him, her head thrown back with transcendent ecstasy. She did not scream, and her moans were low, barely rising above the pitch of a whisper, but he could tell by the involuntary tremors, the tightening around his cock that he was giving her everything she needed. He moved his hand over her flank, then slid his thumb down between her legs and applied just the merest pressure. Her body jerked and she bent forward with a groan. He caught her mouth with his, his tongue thrusting between her lips as he arched his back, coming so hard he could feel his spine crack.

"Christ," he breathed, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face into her breasts.

"Who?" she asked.

"No one."

Present

"I know we can't be together," Ziio said with a pragmatism he found almost pitiless. He shook his head and touched her hair, kissing her now-swollen lips. Their bout of lovemaking had been virtually silent, but no less furious for that. It had the sweet viciousness of something stolen. Haytham's shirt was torn open and his trousers were down around his knees. Ziio was in much the same condition, but her eyes looked far away, and the bruises he had put on her neck and throat already seemed to fade. It made him a little sad.

"You're not wrong," he admitted, then let his hand wander up under her shirt to thumb her nipple.

She licked her lips, almost uncertain now. Or as close as she ever got. "I mean, I wish…but I know. I don't even know how I know, I just do."

He put a finger to her lips. "Best not think on it now, my darling. Besides."

"Besides what?"

"It's a long journey."