"So. Has your father already asked you about Samuel, directly or not? ("Will there be any kind of sequel to 'To Swim in Winter'?)"
A reply to an ask on the ask blog connorfemway on tumblr, and a pseudo-follow up to my other story/reply "To Swim in Winter".
Warning: If you want to know what's going on in this and you haven't read To Swim in Winter, then you're gonna get a little lost. But an FYI if you wanna read on anyways: The Samuel mentioned here is Samuel Adams the third, son of the founding father Samuel Adams. A real person.
Enjoy.
Lounging in the sun was a nice change.
The Assassin hardly ever has the time for lounging, but it is on this day that she really needs it. Within a messy pile she lays, head tossed back and eyes open. A bare foot wrapped in bandages is propped up on a stack of bricks close by. Not one for remaining indoors during times of required rest, she had taken to the doctor's messy backyard. The afternoon sun that hangs high up above warms her face. A stray feline has found its way to her side and curled up beside her, face tucked beneath the Assassin's arm.
It was peaceful here. But there was one thing that might make this moment better - the ceasing of the incessant banter in the background. Voices echo from within the doctor's home, flooding out from the back door that stands ajar from Connor's not-so-graceful trip to where she now finds herself.
Haytham was not one to simply take a situation for what it was. No, his complicated mind required dissection of events and of the people involved - sometimes literally. In this case, Haytham was putting his sharp tongue (and likely his blade soon) to work in order to not have to pay such a hefty fee for the doctor's bill.
The Templar had money to pay for himself, of course. Haytham's source of funds was something Connor dared not guess about. It had been foolhardy, then, to think that his daughter carried the same resources. In a period of instability, money had been hard to come by, even on the homestead.
The native had insisted that they not go to a doctor, and Haytham had assumed that she was simply skittish about them (or proper medical treatment in general - she seemed more likely to lick her wounds like an animal, he had accused).
He was forced to pay for the both of them upon the revelation that Connor carried only a few coins on her person. The doctor asked for far more than he was owed. Haytham ran his mouth, waved his fingers, gave dirty looks, all in the name of saving money. It had been at least twenty minutes and the man with the thick accent was still going strong.
Otherwise, today had been a good day so far. No, she could not walk on her leg at the moment and various other parts of her body ached, but the sun on her face remedied any pain she felt. The cat tucked up against her side was a pleasant bonus. The Assassin trails her fingers down the length of the cat's back, the vibration of its purring rumbling in her abdomen.
The doctor's neighbors go about their duties. There are no fences to separate yards, so animals and people roam as they please. There is enough solitude, however, that Connor feels no risk of being found by patrolling regulars. Her notoriety was high at this time, and not exactly on accident.
The Assassin lets her eyes fall shut, pushing back the hood on her head so that her face might be exposed further. She could sleep here easily, left to herself with this warmth.
Relaxed thoughts roam through her mind. A shadow passes over the native, blocking out the sun for a moment. The Assassin figures it is someone passing, but a moment later the sunlight is being blocked again. This time the shadow does not recede, the warmth gone from her face. Warily she listens for noise or talk, but there is only Haytham's distant banter.
Connor dared not open her eyes - better to feign sleep than to stare a stray redcoat in the face or give a glare to someone who might simply be observing her, curious of the injured native (and her rather odd appearance). Despite these reassuring thoughts, her blade hand tenses at the ready. Connor was well acquainted with Lady Luck. They'd had many sour encounters, and they no longer trusted each other.
At the sensation of fingers brushing her cheek, the Assassin's eyes pop open. Set into motion, she snatches the wrist of the unknown person touching her and twists it around, not a moment later pinning the person to the ground face-first. The hidden blade is pressed to his adam's apple, and these movements take not more than a moment. The cat has sprung to life yowling, feet carrying it to hide beneath a nearby wagon, and some of the bricks upon which her foot had rested have tipped and fallen to the ground.
Who she finds pinned to the ground makes her face flush with awkward tension, especially realizing that she sits upon his back. The man whose head she pins to the ground is laughing nervously, one vibrant blue eye watering from the dirt now invading it. Nonetheless, he gazes up at her and there is admiration hidden beneath the surprise and tension in his eyes.
"I should have known better than to presume you sleeping," Samuel chokes beneath the weight of the Assassin, his adam's apple grazing the flattened side of the blade. Despite this, he tries his best to remain positive, planting his usual smile on his features, "Hello again, Connor."
With the flick of a finger the blade is drawn back into its sheath. The Assassin looks anxious as she moves herself off of Samuel's back. Try as she might, standing was futile, and she struggles to keep herself straight on one leg. She extends a hand to try to help him up, but doubts it will do much. The man grasps her hand briefly, the both of them steadying themselves on their feet before Samuel removes his hand. Instead he wraps it about the Assassin's shoulders and helps her to lie in the hay again. The exchange is awkward for the Assassin - yet again she finds herself doing wrong by this man who only seems to have kindness to offer in return. As though being mistreated by the native woman was a good thing. But the protest of the way he helps her instead of the other way around is quelled by the pain that shoots up the Assassin's leg. The bandages are stained red in a few spots now.
"I am sorry. I had thought you to be someone else," she finally remembers she has a voice, deep brown eyes following Samuel as he brushes himself off, standing over her. He is clothed in shades of green.
"I could not imagine who you had planned to pin to the ground, then, if not me," he jokes wholeheartedly. Briefly he turns to fetch his tricorn hat, which rests in the dirt not far away. When he turns back to Connor his gaze is focused on her injured leg. Her foot is bare and dirty, and the blood seeps through the bandages. Toes twitch every now and then, Connor's hands gripping hay tightly to prevent the pained noises that dare to find their way up to her throat.
"I was not expecting to find you here," she says instead, hoping to divert his attention from the wound. And, after all, it was the truth - they were in New York now. The last she'd seen Samuel was at the tavern in Boston months earlier.
"I'm afraid I cannot say the same," the man makes his way back to the Assassin's side, easing himself down to sit on the pile of bricks. He rests his elbows upon his knees, tipping his hat lower over his face to block out the harsh light of the sun. His icy blue eyes look stunning in the light of afternoon. "I've been in New York for quite some time. When I heard a crier shouting about a native woman slaughtering some of the guard not far from here, I had a hunch it was you. I cannot say whether I am happy or otherwise, finding I was right. Your injury looks serious."
The Assassin struggles to relax in the hay again, opting instead to pull her hood back over her head to shadow her own eyes from the sun. The cat rejoins her, lying across her stomach. The injured leg throbs dully.
"It is not serious. It shall heal," she runs her hand along the cat's upturned stomach, voice low and dismissive.
But Samuel does not appear convinced. He seems to want to speak, to say something that might debunk her words, but there is no point in it. The wound was wrapped and now she was resting, and that was what mattered.
"If you insist," despite the words he speaks, his eyes reveal the subtle happiness he seems to feel. He reaches down and touches his fingers to the bandages wrapped around her leg. Connor allows this, mind set on reparations rather than rebuttals.
From behind where the two sit, Haytham's voice continues to rumble within the doctor's home. Samuel has finally noticed it, his eyes falling on the door that stands ajar.
"Is this not a doctor's residence?" he asks, the right corner of his lips upturning with amusement. He does not remove his fingers from Connor's wounded limb.
"The doctor means to swindle us, so says my father."
"And what of you?"
"Our opinions are alike," the Assassin nods her head once, "But I did not want to come to a doctor at all. I have no money to pay him, while my father does. I had told him not to come here because of this, and yet we came. To be swindled is not something he takes simply."
"Good for him. It is best to stand up to those who might abuse their skills or power."
Silence flows between them after these simple words are exchanged. His fingers play with the cloth bandage now, as though he refuses to keep his hands off of his mostly unknown companion. For ease and comfort, Connor props her foot up on the bricks next to him. This way, Samuel may straighten his back and sit upright, and he does so.
"You are enjoying yourself?" she mutters after the period of silence, in which the awkward tension began its crawl back through her mind. The Assassin was hardly one for small talk, but keeping conversation flowing was a good way of not only keeping the thoughts of the stupid things she had done to this man off her mind, but also keeping herself distracted from the touch he delivers her injured leg.
"Yes, and no. I am glad to see you, of course, but also quite worried and somewhat disappointed," he turns his head to the side, away from her, eyes squinted to avoid the bleating sun. She follows his gaze to some buildings across the small yard area, but does not see what might be holding his attention there, "It is a shame you've been hurt. I've thought of dancing with you again many times since we last met. Now that I've found you, it appears I will have to be patient yet again."
"I did so then only to make amends. You should not expect repetition," Connor is always too serious for her own good. Despite her dismissal of his interest, Samuel's smile broadens.
"Did you not enjoy it, Connor?" his icy blue eyes are warm when they turn back to the Assassin, "I know your motivation was reparation, but I also know you enjoyed our time together. Your expressions do not lie - a smile is worth a thousand words."
Connor narrows her gaze at Samuel, lowering her chin to allow more of the hood to cover her face. Only faintly does she remember the smile she had given him upon their previous departure.
Thoughts are drawn away from their last meeting when Haytham's voice goes silent within the doctor's home. Connor cranes her neck around to see the door still standing ajar. Nobody stands in the doorway.
"Perhaps it is best you leave," she turns back to him, lips thin.
"I suspect your father is not the kindest of gentlemen," Samuel chuckles, but appears disappointed by her request to leave. "And I suspect I have displeased you as well."
Samuel stands, brushing off his coat despite doing the same thing before. It seemed to be a habit when standing. His eyes wander between the doctor's house and Connor as though he is trying to make a decision. The Assassin eyes him, gaze turning from curious to suspicious as the man gets down on a knee to kneel beside her.
"I only wish we had more time together, that way you might think to accompany me on grounds other than a solid 'I owe you'," the man holds out a hand to her. She surveys the appendage - long fingers, a pale palm, clean nails. Finally she lifts her own hand and sets it in his. Just as before, he presses his lips to the back of her hand and displays the way he savors this moment when he closes his eyes. He squeezes her hand fondly.
"I do not understand why you feel the need to do that," she feels her cheeks warm up with the affection he seems so determined to deliver to her. It makes her tone sound reproachful, but he sees through it.
"I do not, either," a dashing smile passes over his face - toothy, happy. It is clear Samuel has told a lie - not only to Connor, but to himself. He opens his eyes and surveys her shadowed face. "Perhaps it is because I feel graced to know such an extraordinary woman, and enticed by the way she acts as though she'd like me to disappear, yet allows me to kiss her hand."
"Or perhaps your perception of me is flawed - I am not extraordinary, and you kiss my hand only because I regret the way I have treated you in the past."
Samuel's expression has grown to be more serious as Connor has talked. He looks upon her incredulously, letting another moment of silence flow between them. The Assassin tosses her gaze elsewhere, feeling a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.
Finally Samuel releases Connor's hand, but it does not drop to his side. Instead he turns his hand around, gently brushes the back of his fingers across her cheek. The touch is barely a tickle, it is so light. It is obvious Samuel is being daring on purpose - this touch had gotten him thrown to the ground not minutes before. Despite the compulsion to break his wrist, Connor instead turns her face away to make the stroke shorter, making it obvious that while his touch was more welcome than other's it was something she tolerated instead of enjoyed.
"Take good time to recover. The next time I see you, we will dance," he says with assurance, finally letting his hand drop to his side. He stands from where he kneeled, brushing his clothing off for a third time.
"I shall be sure to stay out of your line of sight," she tosses the words out before she has the mentality to check them. They come across as sarcastic, luckily. The two meet eyes, and Samuel's smile returns. He seems all too fond of her, now.
"Don't think it's that easy to rid yourself of me," he chuckles, adjusting his hat and tightening his ponytail behind his head, "We will meet again. I feel that we've got destiny on our side, Connor."
A small bow exchanged for the slightest of nods is the only goodbye given. Samuel turns his back to her, crossing the yard and passing into an alley between two homes before she has time to completely evaluate his claim of 'destiny'.
Connor takes careful time flexing the fingers of her kissed hand, trying to make the tingling feeling go away. She rubs the fingers on her cheek, sighing heavily with the multitude of things she feels.
But it seems like she has no time to think, for Haytham has appeared from behind her, his footsteps fast before he short stops in front of his daughter. His eyes are stuck in the direction Samuel had gone. His expression can only be described as dangerously livid.
"Making friends with dogs now?" he inquires, turning his ever-scrutinizing gaze on his daughter. Before Connor can open her mouth to retort with the sarcasm that runs through the family, Haytham's steps have continued in the same direction as Samuel.
For the first time in a long time, the Assassin feels panic. Irrational panic.
"Where are you going? Father!" she raises her voice higher than she thought she could at this time, picking up the cat from her belly and setting it in the hay before she tries to get to her feet. There is considerable stumbling involved here and much pain, but she feels she must act quickly. Haytham's intentions were not clear, but the situation stunk of danger on the part of Samuel.
Settling weight on this foot, especially in terms of walking, was not going to work. A few quick hop-steps along and Connor's leg buckles, sending her to her hands and knees on the ground.
Haytham either did not hear his daughter or opted not to listen. But Connor would not simply let him go. The daughter of the Templar leader, like her father, did not appreciate being ignored or having her voice overshadowed.
Instead, the Assassin pulls herself back to her feet with a snarl. She snatches up a fairly big rock from the grass and chucks it at Haytham with all the strength she commanded - making for a potentially deadly projectile if lucky, although that wasn't the intention.
It reaches Haytham as he nears the alley, and he ducks beneath the projectile, stopped in his tracks. The rock bounces off the side of a home, clatters down the concrete alleyway.
"By the gods, Connor, you never seem to disappoint me with your naiveté," Haytham spits, standing up straight again, wiping his chin with the back of his sleeve. He is turned toward her now and raises his palms, tips his head back for a moment with his exasperation. His expression is a mix of things Connor can't bother herself to read into at this moment. "The way you'd opt to take my head off rather than have me pursue the fool shows me that I was right yet again about you and your habit of making poor decisions."
"What nonsense do you speak of?" the woman's voice cracks with the strain of walking along on the injured leg she sports. But she refuses to let him continue, and if he turned down the alley she would surely lose him.
"I didn't even need to inquire about Samuel. All that was necessary was to threaten him and you've given me the answer," Haytham sarcastically chuckles, flicking his wrist to show off the unsheathed hidden blade, "I allow you to make many mistakes Connor. I allow you to wear your Assassin garb and I allow you the freedom to do as you please for their cause. I allow you to live amongst pigs and wenches, but this boy is one thing I will not allow."
"I do not understand where this is coming from, Father," the Assassin spits the words, stopping halfway to him. She leans against a fencepost, legs and arms trembling with the pain. She stares at him with confusion and anger, "How do you know of him?"
This question is one Haytham seems keen to avoid. Instead he crosses his hands behind his back, chin stuck in agitation, as he speaks answers to other questions she holds. "Do you think me naive? That I might not pay attention to you once I heard the commotion outside? This boy of yours has overstepped his bounds - he is hardly worth your time and certainly not worthy enough to think he can lay even a finger on you. But how can I be surprised when it comes to you and your foolish ways? Any man who offers you a dance must certainly be quite the knight, Connor."
The Assassin can hardly keep up with the Templar's words. The only thing she seems to mentally stick to is his last sentence.
It is now she remembers seeing him - there, in the snow, outside of the tavern. The wagon that came between them. And then he was gone.
Connor can't help but question herself - how would he know they had danced when they were inside the crowded tavern? This was a time before their joining to pursue enemies, before they had reconciled for the moment to work side by side.
"You... were you following me?" she questions, eyes narrowing dangerously.
"I'm sure you would be quite fond of that notion, wouldn't you?" Haytham tips his head, smiling with his sarcasm, "But no, I was not following you - the tavern in which you two chose to spend your foolish time was a tavern in which I am well acquainted. I was there on business. Stepping down the stairs I happened to spy you two by the fire. I daresay I need explain further."
The father steps forward as his daughter lowers her head, shaking it with frustration. She had not been careful, not been wary enough of her surroundings.
"There is nothing between us," she bitingly retorts to his pointed gaze as he nears her. "If you had planned this to test me, then you have learned nothing. I only hope to prevent you slaughtering those who are innocent, as is your tendency."
"Then explain to me, Connor, what you are thinking when you let him-"
"I owe you no answers," she raises her voice and is met with a threatening glare. When he nears she stands up straighter, moving to stand in his face. Barely an inch apart, both wear the same expression - one of anger and loathing and misplaced protectiveness.
"You will not harm him. It is not your place to say-"
"Excuse me?" Haytham narrows his gaze, grimaces, "Spare me your little speech about freedom and how I'm not obligated to intervene. Look around you, foolish girl, and tell me that I have no say. We live in a society where fathers throw their daughters into marriage before they've even hit adulthood. Considering this, I think I've been quite generous regarding your marriage and regarding which men you decide to keep around you. I believe I've just as much say as any father, with the added bonus that I let you have that freedom which you so desperately cling to."
"Speaking to you is like speaking to a brick wall," Connor exclaims ferociously, fuse run out in terms of her temper, "Perhaps it never occurred to you that I do not care what you think. Instead of trusting my words you decide you will intervene in affairs that are not your own. You talk about the fathers of this place who send their daughters away, but at least they were there for their family. At least they could own up to the mistakes they made, instead of creating excuses and blaming their child's faults on stupidity, foolishness, being naive."
"You only prove that you know nothing," Haytham's voice has lowered to a hiss, "Those men do not care for their daughters, only that they wish to be rid of them. They choose husbands who might supply their daughter with wealth to be passed on to them when they have grown old. They care not for her emotion nor for her wellbeing. To say that their intentions are better than mine only shows how narrow minded you are. If it takes me killing that fool to prevent you from making a bigger fool of yourself, then I will gladly oblige."
"Touch him and you will regret it." Connor points a finger at her father, and when it is smacked away, she seems to lose her temper.
The opposite fist is sent flying and is caught by Haytham, who twists his daughter's arm around and her body with it. He kicks the back of her injured leg and releases her fist, sending her to the ground on her knees and a shoulder. The Assassin snarls with rage, but feels too weak to get up and try again. Haytham flexes his hand, hearing a distinct pop-crack that tells him that she very well could have broken his nose.
"Perhaps you should do your research before you try to defend these people you claim as friends," Haytham spits, reaching to his side. A small bag of coins is tossed onto the ground next to her head. "Find a hotel and rest. Find me again when you've set your mind straight."
The sun is setting overhead by the time Connor has hauled herself to a usable bed. The cat that has followed her sneaks its way between her crippled legs and into the room before her. It waits until she has fallen onto the bed before it curls up next to her.
What a mess, she can only think. Haytham seemed determined that Connor was infatuated with Samuel. And now there were things she didn't know about him? While that much was obvious, she felt curious now as to what.
The explanation of Haytham's overprotective nature was far beyond her mental reach. Things had seemed to only get worse since their return from the Caribbean, and she dared not try to find a remedy to a problem that Achilles had said she might expect with their getting close.
As she lies in bed, as the night engulfs the streets of New York outside, Connor wishes that she might feel Samuel's hand glide across her cheek again soon. She has convinced herself that this desire is not one of an infatuated soul or of someone seeking comfort - it is simply a hope that would prove that Haytham had not taken his blade to the man's throat. That somewhere, wherever he was, he was safe for now, and they might meet again in the future.
It was hard already keeping those she cared for safe. It seemed that, now, there was one more person on that list - by fluke, she assures herself.
For she could not let Haytham take away the life of the son of Samuel Adams. No, that was certainly something she couldn't bring herself to live with. Especially if it was her fault.