Chapter 2: The Past Comes Knocking

I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel.

The lyrics provided are from the songs:

1) "A Man Chases a Girl"

2) "Down in the Meadow"

3) "I Wanna Be Loved By You"

All three songs were performed by Marilyn Monroe.

Italics: Used for memories and Connor's native tongue.

Three Years Later

Boston, 1773

Traveling to Boston could not have been fast enough for his escalating anger. Each snap of a twig beneath his heavy feet would only further spark his impatience. He was not going to fail to protect his people again. No. Never again. He was no longer a helpless child, being choked by a terrifying man while his people suffered. He had the strength and abilities to stop the injustice this time. And Connor had every intention of doing so. First, he had to swallow down the painful memories that crept their way into his mind.

Erase the fire.

Erase the screams.

Erase the large hand at his throat.

Erase his mother's final words.

"You must be brave, Ratohnhake':ton.."

Alright...He was alright. Connor returned to the present moment in the comfort of the forest. He could not risk dwelling on this trauma for too long, for he feared that he would stop moving.

The treetops watched from above as the Native assassin dashed away, their branches intertwined like steepled skeletal fingers. 'What is this man chasing this time, hmm?' one could imagine what the trees mused over.

"This man, William Johnson, plans to take our land and force our people to leave. Ratonhnhake:ton...My dearest friend, I had to seek you out. This must be stopped."

The words of his closest friend, Kanen'to:kon, recurred over and over in his mind, memorizing the new target's name intently as if it were his own. It was a shame that the reunion with Kanen'to:kon was not spent in delight. Guilt gnawed away at Connor's heart, but his determination to seek out the next villain surpassed this emotion. 'I will visit soon, my friend. I promise.'

A scowl had been plastered upon his chapped lips throughout his trek, having left the Davenport Homestead shortly after whipping a tomahawk into a column. Dismissing the chastising of his teacher, former master assassin Achilles Davenport, Connor had declared a personal war with William Johnson. He had promised to return when this thorn in his side was removed and annihilated to his satisfaction. Lee would have to wait. For now.

"If you embark on this mission, seek out Sam Adams," Achilles had advised earlier that day, concealing his disapproval of his student's actions without thinking.

The journey through the woods would come to a close sometime in the evening, the weary sun giving way to the waking night. The fire lit lanterns and street lamps of the city granted him some relief. He was closer. This relief was soon thieved of him when Sam Adams was nowhere to be found. Connor cursed in his native tongue in a low breath, his fists tightening by his sides. After an hour of interrogating town callers and merchants, he finally received a direct tip from a local printer he once visited with the statesman years ago.

"Ah, Sam's usually plotting away in the Green Dragon Tavern," the shoppe keeper had informed, filing away a day's worth of paperwork. "It's a few blocks down from here. The sign is not hard to miss with that Oriental dragon and all. Say, do I know you?"

"No," Connor dismissed the question curtly, leaving the printing shop in a swift manner.

And off Connor went, tracking down the tavern with ease. Just as the shoppe keeper had promised, a green dragon with a long, serpentine body met his dark eyes. The depicted dragon seemed to grin wickedly down at the Native assassin, for numerous secrets and shenanigans have occurred in this tavern time and time again. Fortunately enough, Connor focused his attention on the entrance door, recognizing Sam. The statesman was accompanied by his long time slave, Surry, who was dressed in a worn out, powder blue coat and white breeches. Connor faintly remembered the young man from years ago. He had been the one to direct him to Sam Adams when Achilles was nowhere in sight after the massacre.

"Samuel Adams," he said the statesman's full name in a commanding tone.

Sam turned around and smirked at how much the Native boy had grown since he had last seen him. He recognized that solemn demeanor from a mile away.

"Connor," Sam greeted with a lazy smile. "What brings you to Boston, my friend?"

"I have been searching for you," he dismissed the friendly chatter, his focus solely on Johnson. "What do you know of William Johnson's whereabouts?"

"William Johnson," Sam reiterated, his eyes drifting in thought.

With a jerk of his head, Sam motioned for Surry to meet him in the tavern. The older man leaned in to speak with Connor in a low voice.

"Be wary of discussing such things in public. Now what has happened?"

"He plans to purchase the land my village lives upon without my people's consent. I need your assistance to track this William Johnson down. Now."

"I see your dilemma," the statesman rubbed his chin, his mind skimming over recollections of Johnson's schemes. "Alright. Have some patience first. We cannot act if not enough information is collected. Let us discuss this over ale, eh? I promised Surry that I would watch him perform with this songstress that's a tavern favorite around here."

Connor merely nodded, his frown easing a tad. At least something was set in motion.

Stepping into the tavern, a wave of warmth and the scent of spiced ale infiltrated his nostrils. The smell was foreign to him, and he was not quite sure if he enjoyed it or not. The corner of his lip twitched. The noise was much too loud for his liking. Sam laid claim on a small table tucked in a corner near the bar, motioning with a wave of his large hand for Connor to sit. Doing so, Connor found himself facing the spectrum of the rambunctious tavern at this late hour.

"It's packed tonight," Sam noted, his light eyes scanning the room as he twisted around in his seat. "Hmm, mostly men. No lady friends for you tonight, I'm afraid."

The older man chuckled, but the Native assassin did not offer a smile. He was not interested in a woman's company at the moment.

"Please, Samuel. I implore you to discuss this issue with me."

"As you wish."

Ordering two ales for them both, Sam informed the young man on Johnson's tea extortion. 'Why delve into this? My people's land is at stake.' The statesman proposed that he would aid Connor in preventing the sale of his people's village if he agreed to take part in destroying the tea extortion with, as he called them, "like-minded men." Connor mulled over the proposal. True, he neither expected nor wanted an exchange of favors in eliminating Johnson. However, if this corruption of the tea extortion would feast away at Johnson's power, then the Native assassin was more than up for the challenge.

"I accept," Connor affirmed, his palms pressed face down onto the table.

"Looks like we're in business," smirked Sam as he nodded his head.

The twinkling sound of tickled piano keys struck through the indistinguishable noise of chatter. Voices began to boom in volume as a couple of wolf-whistles sounded off.

"What is happening?" asked Connor, leaning his head over to the side to peer over bopping heads.

"Remember that songstress I spoke of during our rather short-lived reunion at the entrance?"

Connor nodded, still seeking out the cause of this effect on the drunken men in the tavern.

"Look to the staircase to the far right," Sam instructed him with a smirk.

Following the instruction, the young man located the winding staircase to the far right where a woman stood three steps from the floor. Her hip was jutted out to the left, a coy smile curling her berry stained lips. Loose curls of golden hair framed her heart-shaped face delicately, bouncing along as she descended the final steps.

"Did you all come to visit me?" she spoke in a breathy voice, her fingertips reaching up to touch her cheeks.

More whistles sounded off at the woman's theatrical playfulness. Her dress was a rich shade of green, the collar pinned down over her shoulders and collarbone. Connor stared with wide eyes from beneath his hood. The bright smile. The soft giggle. The blonde curls.

He cursed under his breath in surprise.

"That woman," he mumbled.

Connor watched intently as the woman made her way to the piano where Surry sat, warming up his fingers for the night. Looking up from the ivory keys, Surry smiled as the blonde woman leaned over to peck his cheek in greeting. Sam chuckled deeply over Connor's dumbfounded expression, mistaking him for being smitten. Actually, Connor was just shocked to find the woman that aided him in the massacre years ago. He had never expected to be reacquainted with her presence.

"Ha ha! I figured you'd take to her quickly," Sam chuckled aloud. "She sings while Surry over there plays the piano. Quite the prodigy, he is."

"I know that woman," Connor informed sternly, having been caught off guard by the past.

"Do you? Well, say 'Hello' afterward."

"I cannot," he declined, rising from his seat abruptly.

"Connor, stay and relax for a while."

"I am sorry. I must leave."

Whether it was rational or not, he experienced a sense of embarrassment. He hoped that she would not see him, not recognize him. He was just a boy on the verge of manhood at the time she met him in the alleyway. He was so clumsy and inexperienced then. A sweet woman had to help him escape when he initially could not execute the plan on his own. Seeing her on this very night had revived the fumbling boy who was still alive in him.

It was more than likely that she had forgotten him. He did not even know her name, but her face and her smile were imbedded in his mind. Clearing his throat, he pulled his pointed white hood further over his face, keeping his head low as he reached the entrance door. Before he could turn the golden knob, a soprano voice cooed, enchanting his ears. He was stopped in his tracks.

"A man chases a girl,

until she catches him.."

Rushing to exit the tavern, he slammed the door shut behind him. He could still hear her voice from a nearby open window.

"He runs after a girl,

until he's caught.."

Such a sound, such a soft voice married with the sombre tune of an antique piano. The noise of the bustling tavern was no longer a bother, for he only heard her singing.

Lingering at the slightly ajar window, he leaned his back against the brick wall, continuing to listen in on the song. Perhaps this visit to Boston wouldn't be entirely disgruntling. He could have departed then. Easily. However, his body refused to budge. He could actually feel his hunched shoulders ease in tension as one song followed another. 'Perhaps I will stay a bit longer,' he thought, masking his child-like enjoyment over the melody with duty. 'Just a moment longer, and no more. Then I leave.'

Connor remained near that window for as long as the woman would sing.

For the past fortnight, the Native assassin visited the Green Dragon Tavern. He would remain stationed at the open window only if she was present to sing. He never walked in the tavern, strangely. He eventually made himself comfortable outside, claiming a wooden awning above the entrance door as his favorite seat. Connor felt more secure enjoying her voice in the shadows, where she could not see him.

The woman's arrival in the tavern was unpredictable. She was usually late, whether it be for twenty minutes or an entire hour. He knew that she would sing tonight, for he located Surry through the window, preparing himself at the piano. On this night, she did not appear for almost an hour.

Alas, Connor waited. It was none of his business what the blonde woman did with her time. Connor could be seen lightly swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the awning, listening in contently for the woman's voice to make itself known.

Shallow wheezing escaped her mouth as she desperately tried to breath. The calls of the men in the tavern were causing her heart to palpitate at an alarming rate. Too much pressure, too much demand from a man, especially more than one. She was due to sing downstairs in the tavern an hour ago. However, the suffocation of panic brought the woman to her knees. Madame had arrived not too long ago after being given the message of MaryLynn's episode. She had taken her valued girl to one of the vacant bedrooms upstairs in the tavern, trying to calm down the nervous woman.

"Breathe! You're goin' to breathe, girl! We can't do this every time you go out there! You're perfectly fine fuckin' a man, and yet this frightens you to no end."

"I c-can't...the people, the sounds...I-I can't t-take the p-p-pressure," MaryLynn sputtered, her skin blotched with red in patches.

"Dear Lord, help me not strike this child. I'm gettin' the whiskey. After tha', you are goin' out there. I have to get back to the Maverick."

MaryLynn wrung her quivering hands together once Madame left to fetch the whiskey. Little did the older woman know, MaryLynn usually supplied herself with a flask of either aged whiskey or bourbon strapped to her thigh beneath her clothing. Just in case. However, in the midst of a panic episode, her body was paralyzed by an unseen, nonexistent threat, her body unsure whether to fight or remain perfectly still.

The anticipation of the noises and sights always struck her with paralyzingly anxiety before she went on. Do not mistaken, she had loved to sing beside that lovely antique piano, waving her hands lightly about like dove wings and puckering her flushed lips to achieve the right tune. It was her only escape to a pleasant world.

However, the fear of losing a roof over her head had plagued her for almost a decade. The demands of a man, when the situation was not under her control alone, contributed to the panic as well. As the clientele raised, the number of friends declined. Only Madame, and at times Surry and Sam Adams, was the only people she spoke to. However, lonliness was torture. She strived for just one thing over all these psychological triggers: control. What if she failed? What if she didn't get clients? What if she was harmed unexpectedly? What if Madame threw her out of the brothel, ill fated to walk the streets as she did as an adolescent?

The downward spiral of insecurity was debilitating.

The woman was one of the top prostitutes in Boston! Why have such irrational thoughts? Well, that is the mystery of MaryLynn Mortenson. Life seemed in check. She knew what to say and what to do, even how, in order to gain what she needed from men. And yet, an impending doom and constant sense of danger never left her heart. Two different people co-existed within her curved body: the vixen with all the charm in the palm of her hand, and the virgin with the shame of a stain on her womanhood.

"Here," Madame returned with a shot of luke warm whiskey, kneeling down to the seated woman as if giving an infant warm milk. "Drink this down and get out there."

The blonde woman nodded timidly, accepting the glass without meeting Madame's gaze. A few sips down her parched throat, and she relaxed within ten minutes. The interchanging of the two personas occurred once the woman stood up to walk to the staircase, leaving a tired Madame to herself.

"Now I need a bloody drink. Damn girl drank it all!" mumbled Madame, sighing aloud.

Descending down the winding staircase, the quiver of MaryLynn's lips formed into the smile of a confident, sensual woman. Her fingertips traced along the oakwood railing slowly, the sensual feel of the polished wood ever so delicious.

The men cheered and howled at the sight of the fair haired woman in the pale yellow dress, her smooth shoulders exposed. Winking, the quiet voice from before had changed into a sultry tone as she cooed, "Sorry to keep you waiting, fellas. I just couldn't decide what to wear for you tonight!"

Laughter erupted at the light joke.

Whiskey was her medicine. Singing was her pride. Sex was her business. Beneath it all, she was a little girl frightened over ending up on the street again. Alone. She wanted to be remembered, whether it was for a good roll in bed, a kind word, or a sultry, soft voice. Her pain was molded into a carefree, sensual performance for all to see. The pain then, and only then, was shelved for a while.

'Thank goodness Madame had extra pins to alter this dress!' she thought with gratitude, referring to the pulled down collar. Quickly, she met with Surry at the piano. Occasionally, two other men, a violist and a flutist, would join. They were nice enough, but it was Surry whom she got along with famously. His impeccable rhythm with the keys and her velvety soprano went hand in hand. He was a quiet young man, but he warmed up to MaryLynn over the past year that they had worked together. A prostitute and a slave. Seemed like an interesting duo.

Sometime into the performance, Sam had located the Native assassin in his usual spot, lost in his own world as he listened to the woman sing. He was immersed in the woman's voice, his anger and obsessive determination soothed for a while. Shaking his head, Sam had had enough of the young man's reluctance. Sitting outside the tavern like an eager peasant child? Really?

"Blast it, Connor! Just introduce yourself to her!"

"No," he responded, his focus retained on the window.

Sam found himself chuckling softly, his impatience wavering. After all his years of red-hot fury, the older man had found ways to find humor in situations to alleviate himself. No need to yell.

"Woman troubles, my friend?"

"I do not understand."

"Do you..how do I explain this..do you fancy her? Hence this reluctance to just say, 'Hello, my name is..' Surry works with her, you know this. He can introduce you."

"I still do not like that you own a man."

"Now don't change the subject on me," Sam chastised, knowing full well not to go into that conversation with Connor. "What is so opposing about simply talking to the woman?"

"Oh," he exhaled aloud, turning his body around to look down to Sam. "It is not that it is opposing. I barely know her, and she serves me no benefit in my mission. I see no purpose in making myself known."

His firm, matter-of-fact statements caused the statesman to laugh aloud. The Native assassin found business in everything he encountered, and handled them as such. The iron mask of stoicism never faltered. However, seeing Connor in such a relaxed state when listening to MaryLynn sing left Sam pondering over the young man's inner self.

"Connor, Connor, Connor...Perhaps it is a good thing that you are not a romantic man. 'Assassin' seems to suit you just fine, my friend."

Connor dismissed Sam's musings, turning back to his original position on the awning to listen in on the next song.

"When Mister South Wind sighs in the pines,

old Mister Winter whimpers and whines.

Down in the meadow, under the snow,

April is teaching green things to grow."

"She starts again," Connor said, leaning forward to hear better. "This song is my favorite, Sam. Listen."

"I'll listen with you if you promise to actually go in the damn tavern this time. I hear she does more than just sing," Sam suggestively hinted at her other "profession."

"It is a difficult time. It is not unheard of to work in a tavern and tend to farmland," Connor reasoned with raised eyebrows. "What else does this woman do?"

Sam had chosen not to enlighten Connor on prostitution and wooing women altogether. He had neither the energy nor the patience to educate the oblivious young man.

"No. Nevermind," he said, rubbing his eyes before looking back up at Connor. "I'm going in for a drink. You're free to join me."

Sam made his way to the entrance, pulling open the heavy wooden door. After mulling over the trivial (in his opinion) proposition for several moments, Connor jumped down from the awning, acceding to Sam's offer. The statesman stood at the doorway threshold, smirking over his victory in persuading the bull-headed young man. Connor did not look him in the eye, his stance low and heavy. He did not even admit to his curiosity over the woman. Too proud. Much too proud.

"What of Johnson?" Connor decided to initiate a conversation. "Do you have any new information?"

Three songs had passed before an odd figure entered the tavern. A man in a long white coat, pointed hood hung low over his face, had entered the tavern abruptly with Sam Adams. His low stance and reserved manner was enough for MaryLynn to cock an eyebrow. The man strolled with heavy feet, yet he did not move like a baboon. He was rather graceful in his movements, omniscient of his surrounding with quick turns of his head. He made his way through groups of socializing men with a shift of his shoulders as he followed Sam to the far end of the bar. MaryLynn could not see most of his face, for the white hood with a pointed tongue concealed it well.

From what she could discern, he had downturned, firm lips and a strong chin. Her blue eyes flickered with curiosity as she watched the man-in-white sit down on a stool, Sam Adams taking a seat on the man's right side. The statesman chuckled as he patted the man's back. Some kind of joke shared? She did not know. The pair of gentlemen huddled at the corner of the bar, conversing in low voices with their heads ducked. 'I've seen that man speak with Sam before. Odd. Surry hasn't mentioned anything about a man in a white coat. So strange.' Luckily, she was on a five minute break, resting her voice as she observed the pair of gentlemen from a several feet away.

MaryLynn's mouth parted slightly as she intently watched the man-in-white's lips move. They were not as firm as she thought before. There was a plumpness to them now that he relaxed. He mouthed his words slowly, with intent. His face, or what she could see of it, did not falter with any emotion whatsoever. Amusingly enough, Sam was the one with his heart on his sleeve, his face a one-man show altogether. Perhaps he experienced enough emotion for the both of them.

"Hey, Mary," came a voice from behind, her name phonetically sounding like "merry" from his mouth.

It was Surry. He had politely retrieved the woman from her trance. He was comfortable in his addressing her over time.

About a year ago, Sam had brought Surry to the Green Dragon Tavern for an ale or two to listen to folk music. From what she could see, Sam was generous with the owned young man. The charming tune of tickled piano keys had perked the young man's ears. Sam's wife had taught Surry how to play the piano years ago when he was first acquired. According to Surry, Sam had that infamous twinkle in his eye before addressing the previous pianist, requesting he allow Surry to play a melody or two. Once his slim dark fingers graced those giggling keys, the rest was history.

It wasn't long before Surry had encountered MaryLynn, who at the time started singing in the tavern to add to her business. Surry hadn't a clue as to what she did outside the tavern. He never felt the need to ask. The twosome started evening performances at the Green Dragon, and have been doing so ever since. With her velvety, breathy voice and his flawless talent for rhythm, the two got along famously.

Once his address reached her ears, MaryLynn's eyes shot open while her cheeks were stained with red.

"We have two more songs left," Surry continued. "Which one would you like first?"

"Oh," she sighed, her eyes drawn to the ceiling as dozens of lyrics sounded off in her mind. With a flicker of her eyes, she smiled warmly, whispering to her partner her selection. She cupped her palm around her mouth to amplify the whisper. He nodded, smiling at her selection.

"You always save that song for last," Surry grinned widely.

MaryLynn giggled, covering her berry stained lips with her hands for a moment.

"It's my favorite! I cannot help it," she admitted, removing her hands from her lips when she spoke.

If it was a show they wanted, then a show was what they were going to get.

A short, chipper melody opened the song, the undistinguishable chatter beginning to soften. Gliding her small hand along the rim of the piano, MaryLynn cooed the beginning of the song, expanding her diaphragm as she places her other hand upon her chest.

"I wanna be loved by you.."

A couple of whistles sounded off from the bar before she continued.

"..just you, and nobody else but you. I wanna be loved by you...alo-oone."

As the song progressed, Connor leaned his head over to see the woman embrace herself with curled fingers, her eyelashes fluttered shut. She was in a world of her own creation when she sang. Feeling heat rise to his cheeks, Connor resorted to leaving the tavern before she saw his face. Bidding Sam a quick goodbye, he rose from the wooden stool. Sam, being the older gentlemen with more experience, shook his head as he grumbled, "I will lock you up with a woman one of these days, I swear."

Looking up at Connor, he spoke over the chatter and singing.

"You have no hesitation when infiltrating a fort. And yet, a woman shakes you to the bone! Dear Lord.."

Connor ignored the statesman's frustration. He did not see the importance of gaining this woman's attention. She was just another person. Yes, he was grateful for her kindness three years ago, but he needed nothing more from her. He thieved a glance at the singing woman as he made his way through the crowd. Her blonde curls framed her face nicely, softening the sharp structure of her cheekbones and jutting chin.

She was a little flushed from the constant movement about the piano and the projection of her voice. Surry would occasionally look up at the woman and smile. Seeing her sway her full hips, her hands coyly placed upon them, Connor could not deny to himself that there was something alluring about her. He could not identify the reason why. He just enjoyed it. He refocused his gaze onto the entrance door. Connor's upper lip twitched as he swiftly turned his gaze away, quickening his pace to the entrance door.

MaryLynn was not oblivious. The slight twitch of his lip did not escape her. A woman always knew when a man was intrigued. Grinning, she looked over in his direction, approaching the end of the song.

"I couldn't aspire to anything higher...than the desire to make..you..my own," she coyly points with her index finger at Connor, who just opened the entrance door to step outside.

A couple of men seated at a table near the entrance door argued over who she was pointing to.

"It was me!"

"No, you arse, she pointed at me!"

Some men knew well enough that she pointed at the man-in-white. He did not acknowledge her gesture, instead closing the heavy, wooden door behind him.

'She cannot see me,' Connor thought, furrowing his brows. 'I have nothing to offer her. I will at least see her home before I seek refuge for the night.' It was the least he could do for the woman who gave her kindness to a complete stranger such as himself.

Back in the tavern, the blonde woman felt slightly offended, pouting her lower lip. She resorted to shrugging her shoulders, waving her hand in the air in a dismissal of the man. 'I can get another man's attention just fine, thank you very much.' However, she was intrigued all the same. 'Not so easy to bend my way,' she noted of him. 'This fascinates me. Why so repelled by me, I wonder? He's a full grown man. A woman is probably nothing new to him. Probably has a wife. I can respect that. I suppose.'

The cool air was a godsend to her heated skin as she exited the tavern, her schedule permitting her room to breathe. She was free to return to the brothel, but a quick break alone would serve her nerves well. Thank goodness she was not working tonight! Another man's poor attempt at what he called "sex" was not welcomed tonight.

The chilling weather was a pleasant caress to her face, neck, and shoulders. MaryLynn felt overheated from the nervous tension and the energy she poured into each and every song. Her heart beat rapidly. 'My gosh, does any one else get this flustered? No wonder people drink themselves silly.'

Her hand automatically reached for the flask beneath her petticoat, a brown leather harness strapped to her shapely thigh. Little did Madame know, MaryLynn kept an extra ounce or two of whiskey in a black leather flask in case of another panic episode. Whiskey seemed to do the trick for the past couple of years or so. However, Madame, and Madame alone, supplied her girl with alcohol, fearing that if she had her way with the bottles, she would end up a pathetic drunk like other girls in the business.

'I can hold my whiskey just fine,' MaryLynn thought as she drank in a plentiful gulp of the bitter gold elixir

"Ay, you be sharin' tha' with meh?" an intoxicated man with a heavy accent approached her.

His movements were sloppy and his eyes were glazed over. MaryLynn cleared her throat, the whiskey granting her confidence.

"No, sir," she politely declined, flipping on her public persona of the breathy-voiced damsel. "I am so parched from singing, and even a girl needs a little kick to calm down."

The drunken man chuckled, a cough or two escaping his phlegmy throat. MaryLynn arched an eyebrow, twisting the lid back onto the flask.

"I'll help yeh calm down, missy," the drunken man slurred.

He tripped over his feet as he pushed himself towards her, planning to pin her against the wall. Her heart was close to ceasing its rhythm, but MaryLynn channeled her anger the way Madame taught her.

"When a lady says 'no,'" she began, her damsel persona faltering immediately, "she means no!"

She kicked the man's shin with force, causing him to yell out. Using the heel of her palm, she struck it up, under the man's chin. He grabbed hold of his screaming limb, his eyes shut tightly as his chin throbbed with pain.

"You wench! I oughta...!"

His speech was slurred, incomplete. His actions took over as he advanced to strike the woman with his fist. Before he could do such a thing, he was seized by the forearm by another, taller man. Surprised, the drunken man stumbled about before being tossed aside like a rag doll to the ground.

The man-in-white.

MaryLynn absentmindedly dropped the flask to the ground, the "fwop" of leather hitting the stone ground unheard by her ears. She was surprised by the sudden scene. The man in the white coat looked down at her, his expression stiff. Standing at a full six feet, he towered over the blonde woman. Seconds before he could advance towards her, she forcefully pulled off her shoe and projected it at the man's face with all her strength. To her dismay, he blocked the shoe with his forearm. He bent down to retrieve it from the street.

"Stay back!" she warned him, her stance widening in case she was required to run to safety.

The man simply looked down at the black leather shoe in his hand, then back at the threatened woman.

"Why did you throw this shoe at me?" he firmly questioned, his tone irritated. "People usually thank me for helping them."

"You scared me! I was almost assaulted by a stranger, and you honestly think I will trust another one that approaches me? At this time of night?"

"My intention was not to scare you, but help you."

"I can handle myself. It's not the first time some creep tries to hurt me."

His frown deepened, clearly not understanding her defensive nature. She was rescued. End of story. Realizing that the man-in-white had meant no harm, MaryLynn sighed aloud. After years of avoiding assaults, and recovering from them, she vowed not to find herself in such situations ever again. The man had not harmed her. He could easily have done so, but no such thing occurred.

"Forgive me, sir," she exhaled, her stature straightening up. "It's been a long night, and I am usually panicky. It's dark outside, and I have to be alert, even if I just come outside for a moment."

In a subtle transition, the frown became a neutral expression upon the man's chapped lips. He nodded, gesturing his acceptance of her apology. His silence still made her uneasy.

"Thank you for helping me."

"You are welcome."

"May I have my shoe back?" she requested, reaching out her hand as if the shoe would automatically drop into her palm.

"No."

"Pardon me?" she jutted out a hip, placing a hand upon it.

She was baffled by his answer, her eyebrows knit together as her nose crinkled.

"You threw this shoe at me," the man reasoned, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What makes you think I will return it to you, only for you to throw it again?"

He was almost amused by her pout, her flustered expression. He was reminded of the children of his tribe who would sulk after losing to a game of hide-and-seek. Of course, Connor was usually the victor. The smirk quickly vanished as he surrendered her shoe with a proposal.

"If you promise not to throw this shoe at me again, I will return it."

"Fair enough."

She wobbled forward to retrieve the shoe, hopping on the foot that was not bare. She stumbled, only to be caught by the man. Looking up, she found that his plump lips and strong chin looked familiar up close, especially the copper skin. She strained her vision to see his eyes, swimming in the shadow cast by his hood.

"Do I know you?" MaryLynn drew out the syllables of her question.

He did not answer, releasing his hold of the woman as if she were hot coal. Connor felt too embarrassed to tell her who he was: the clumsy boy in the peak of his teenage years, running away from red coats. Even telling her that he had stopped by, night after night, to hear her sing as he hid away from sight was something that he was not comfortable admitting. Would she deem him rude? Strange?

The blonde woman seemed harmless enough. Looking down onto the shorter woman before him, he pulled back his white hood, revealing his deep set eyes and high forehead. Her nose crinkled as she examined his face. MaryLynn remembered those dark eyes, the furrowed black eyebrows. Those...those freckles! Yes! She did know him!

"You are that Native boy from the massacre a few years ago," she sputtered quickly.

His voice had deepened even more since then. The plump fat of youth was long gone from his face, a chiseled visage of high cheekbones, distinguishing nose and chin, and a high forehead having made their way. Even his build was different. He had grown a bit in height, and his body was bulked with muscles. He became rather-

"Handsome," she whispered under breath.

"I am sorry, but I cannot hear you," he said. "Please, speak up."

She smiled at his overly proper speech, her teeth bared as her lips curled back. He cleared his throat, suppressing a pleasant reaction to her warm disposition. He surrendered the little hostage that was MaryLynn's shoe. Possessing the shoe once again, she leans down carefully, slipping it back on her bare foot.

She stalked off to retrieve the fallen flask from the ground. Shortly after dusting off the object, she lifted up her dress and petticoat to stick the flask back into the leather harness strapped to her thigh. The Native assassin did not leer as a colonial man would. Instead, he looked down at his fingerless leather gloves, picking at the material pedantically. 'Odd one, he is,' she mused, taking note of the man's awkward behavior. 'Has he not seen a woman's thigh before? He's much too handsome to be a virgin. I wonder if he is celibate.'

"What is that you are trying to conceal?" he questioned her, clearly avoiding the sight of her.

Her analysis cut short, MaryLynn shook her head, refocusing on his inquiry.

"My flask. I need a sip..or two..of whiskey from time to time to relax," she informed him, slightly embarrassed by that fact.

Her eyebrows suddenly raised up, realizing that she had revealed a secret to a stranger.

"Don't tell anyone. Please? If word gets out that I drink in secrecy, Madame will get upset if she suspects I drink more than I should!"

Ceasing the picking away of his leather gloves, Connor tried to meet her worried gaze.

"I will not tell if you do not tell of my appearance. I suspect my reputation here may not remain in high regards soon."

Brushing off her wrinkled pale yellow dress, MaryLynn straightened her posture. She carefully imbibed the sight of his face once more, trying to recall his adolescent appearance.

"I never asked you about your purpose years ago. You tried to stop a man from shooting innocent people. I assumed that you were on the side of freedom. I'm hoping you still are?"

His face became serious, staring directly into her eyes without discomfort for the first time that night.

"Yes," he spoke with command, his voice further deepened.

"What is your name? I've wondered this for years. Please, do not tease me," she said playfully, her voice a soft breath.

He was conditioned long enough to give his adopted name rather than his birth name. However, he sometimes wished that he could recite his birth name without someone butchering the pronunciation.

"Connor."

"Connor," the blonde woman reiterated, smiling over the manner in which the sound played upon her lips and tongue. "I am happy to see that you are alive and well."

She walked up to Connor, pushing herself up on the tips of her toes to chastely kiss him on the cheek. She lingered on his copper skin, reluctant to pull away. To her surprise, the Native assassin's torso jolted before suddenly backing away from her touch.

"D-do you need me to accompany you home?" he immediately escaped the situation with a firm inquiry, the woman's touch too overwhelming for him.

Bewildered by his apparent aversion to physical contact, she decided to spare him the embarrassment of the moment by going along with his diversion.

"My 'home' is only a few blocks away. I will be fine, knowing you are around. I thank you, truly."

She hesitated in telling him more of her residence, which was the brothel a few doors down. She did not want to be rude and ask of his awareness of her services. Business was business, and she played the game well with singing in taverns and rocking beds several nights a week. The young man did not come across as a typical, sex-famished man, bored with his married life and troubled by the political struggles. Quite frankly, she could not discern if he was sexual at all! Was there such a thing in a man who was clearly not a monk? As intriguing as Connor was, she did not deem him beneficial to the brothel's business. Oh well. No matter.

"Miss," Connor began.

"You can call me MaryLynn," she interrupted to inform him.

"Sorry. MaryLynn...I had known that it was you, from the massacre. Forgive me, but I have been coming to this tavern for the past few nights, listening to your singing. I do not know if this is offensive or-"

"Oh, Connor!" she chuckled, mercifully ending his fishing for the proper English words and customs. "I'm flattered that you visit, you silly man. Do you really like my singing?"

"Very much," he answered eagerly, a hint of childish glee peaking through.

The woman covered her bashful grin, her eyes flickering as they look up to the night sky. She returned her gaze to Connor, removing her hands from her grin. He cleared his throat, averting his eyes as he picked at his fingerless leather gloves once again. A nervous habit of his.

"I'm so happy to hear this," MaryLynn admitted.

At least he came to hear her sing. That fact alone made her heart swell. He nodded his head, a partial smile given as he glanced at her face before looking away. Her wide smile and bright eyes possessed a warming air. Connor thieved one last glance at the woman's face before he turned to leave. He bid her a curt goodnight, looking over his shoulder.

"Wait," she quietly requested.

He turned back to face the blonde woman, who rubbed her arms for warmth. What MaryLynn was about to ask was out of the ordinary for a woman of her profession. However, a man who was painfully shy, with an aversion to touch; a man who bore no interest in seeking out her services in the bedroom had inspired her to reach out as a woman of heart.

"Come visit me sometime and say 'Hello.' I live at the Maverick just down the block. Be sure to provide your intention so no one mistakes you for someone else."

"I will," he gave his word.

She looked him over once more, smiling to herself at the bulky coat and collection of weapons strapped to his waist.

"You look like you have a thousand and one stories to tell," she mused aloud.

Connor was not quite sure over the specific number she mentioned.

'I don't think I can provide her with a thousand and one stories,' thought Connor. 'One or two, perhaps. But even then, why would she want to know?'

As he turned to leave for good this time, he dashed past the tavern to turn a corner into the back streets, disappearing like a white phantom into the shadows.

"Just don't fret if you see a naked woman walk by when you visit," the blonde woman murmured, beginning her walk to the brothel. "If you visit. I hope you can at least be my friend."

Author's Note:Oh my gosh, thank you so much to those who have read/reviewed/favorited/followed this story! I greatly appreciate you taking time to read this story, and hope you are enjoying it so far. I like to take my time to edit and perfect a chapter, so I'll try to keep updates weekly. If not, it is because I am perfectionist. :P Sorry this chapter was long. I wanted you all to see Connor and MaryLynn reunite. The next chapter will not be as long.

Remember the number One Thousand and One. It will make sense in Chapter 4. ;)

*Update 7/9/13*: Concerning the piano-I am using Artistic Licensing in order to compliment the Marilyn Monroe montage that I intend to use in this story.

Thank you once again! Have a lovely week, everyone. :)

~take care