Davenport Homestead, 1781
Naomi
I went back to my room last night after Connor left, hoping that I could find some respite in sleep. I couldn't, of course. So the next few hours found me in the training room, abusing the dummy with throwing knives and occasionally, my fists. I wanted to get out of the manor, because every room and corridor reminded me of Achilles. But I couldn't risk meeting Connor outside. So I stayed in the house, knowing it was the last place he would go. The act of a coward, I'll admit. But at least I'm not the one obsessed with revenge.
The front door closes with a bang, making me tense. "Naomi?" calls a voice that is very much not Connor's, and I breathe a sigh of relief. "Are you there?"
Diana. "Down here!" I call back to her, still lying on the floor in my shirt and trousers.
She wears a worried expression when she enters the room. Thankfully, Diana doesn't express her sympathies over Achilles' death. She knows I grieve on my own.
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." She forces a smirk. For my sake, of course.
And she isn't wrong. Though I hadn't looked in the mirror for a while, I'm certain that my hair is a matted, tangled mess. Not to mention the dirt on my clothes. Grime on my face.
"Good morning to you too," I try to joke, but my voice comes out grim.
Diana is standing over me now, her face a picture of kindness. "I thought you'd be with Connor."
The name makes me wince. "We're not exactly speaking for now."
"Another one of your arguments?" she muses. "The two of you will make up. You always do."
I bite down a bitter scoff. Not this time, I think.
"Well, you might want to see him off," she continues with a shrug. "I saw him at the harbour this morning. The men were loading guns and whatnot. Looks like he's going to battle."
I'm sitting bolt upright before I know it. "What?" I ask, though I already know the answer. He's going to storm Fort George. I just didn't think he'd be leaving so soon.
Diana looks surprised. "He didn't tell you?"
Oh, he did. Yelled at me, more like. But I had also yelled back. He hurt me, but I had also hurt him. We cut each other up, each time inflicting wounds worse than before, but we somehow always stumble back together. Who's to say this time won't be the same?
Connor will not find peace until Charles Lee is dead. And while I wish that were different, I once thought like him about Shay, too. Who am I to declare him wrong? If I can't change him, I can at least go with him. It is a price I'm willing to pay, I realize now. A compromise I'm willing to make.
Besides, if the brute is going to do something stupid, like getting himself killed, I'm not going to let him do it alone.
"I need to go."
Poor Brie is already galloping as fast as she can, but I urge her forward still for fear that I might miss the Aquila. The sky is bright—I hadn't realized it was so late in the morning—but an autumn chill clings in the air, freezing my hands and face instantly. My stomach flips when I picture the docks without the Aquila. I'm not going to make it, I'm not going to make it—
But there she is, gliding gracefully across the face of the ocean, her sails pregnant with wind. The Aquila is a good few hundred yards away from the harbour, but I will not let that deter me. Muttering a quick thanks to Brie, I leap off her and into a boat, slicing the tether with my hidden blade. The oars slap furiously against the water, and my arms burn with exertion as I row. And row. And row.
A voice in my mind tells me this is foolishness. I will never catch up with the Aquila in a boat, especially not when the wind is with her. That voice grows louder every minute as my determination wanes. The ship is further now than before—I would never reach her at this speed even if I paddled all day.
But Connor was looking for me. He must've been.
I watch as the sails are furled, effectively slowing the Aquila. I paddle even more fiercely now. The ship is still a long distance away, but after half an hour or so of panting and rowing, I finally manage to close the gap.
The water is cold when I dive into it, but not cold enough to numb my body. The Aquila is almost at a standstill now, so I heave myself up the Jacob's ladder and onto the deck without much difficulty. The difficult part, it seems, would be what comes after.
A few dozen pairs of eyes are fixed on me, staring at the person who put them through the trouble of slowing their ship. Though my face is not an unfamiliar one, the men are not overly fond of me. Most of them still feel uneasy with a woman on board. Especially a wet and shivering one at that.
I straighten my spine immediately, levelling my gaze. These men will not watch me squirm. My eyes travel to the stern, where I expect to see a familiar dark figure, but instead I am greeted by a frowning Mister Faulkner.
Before I can open my mouth to ask for the captain, a loud thump sounds from behind, and I whirl around.
Connor looms before me, tall and imposing in his navy tunic. I realize now that the thump was due to his descent from the crow's nest, where he must've been searching for me instead of steering his ship. My heart lurches when our eyes lock—mine, desperate and searching; his, blank and impassive.
"It was wrong of me to say the things I did," I blurt, discomfort gnawing at my gut. The heat of my shame threatens to cook me alive. "Can I— Will you let me fight with you?"
The men all seem to be waiting with bated breath, making matters infinitely worse. Only the squawking of seagulls breaks the silence, along with the sound of waves lapping against the hull.
An eternity passes—during which I contemplate jumping off the ship and swimming back to shore—before Connor finally answers.
"You should change your clothes," he says flatly. "There are some in my quarters."
Before I can respond, he turns around and marches to the bow. The men take this as a cue to continue their work, and I exhale as their gazes are lifted off me. With an effort, I take calm, measured steps towards Connor's quarters, and shut the doors behind me eagerly.
The sight of Connor's cabin is familiar; I spent most of my time here during our hunt for Benjamin Church. Shivering slightly—due to both my wet clothes and Connor's cold treatment, I peel off my garments, and welcome the warmth of his large shirt as I pull it over my head.
A door swings open before I can reach for the trousers, making me jump. "I—Sorry," Connor splutters, averting his eyes quickly. Though we've seen each other in various stages of undress, a flush still colours his cheeks.
I pull on the trousers as quickly as I can. "I'm done."
His jaw is working furiously when he faces me, as if he's having a hard time choosing his words. I find myself doing the same.
Then with fluid, cold grace, he strides across the room, smoldering eyes punching into me. I lock my jaw and resist the urge to fidget.
"You should not have said the things you did," he rasps, anger colouring his words, and I brace myself. But when he continues, that anger is no more. "And neither should I."
It takes me a few seconds to form the words. "Connor, you were right."
"But so were you," he exclaims, the calm demeanor he put on in front of his men unravelling. He reaches for my face, but stops at the last second, forcing his hands into fists at his side. As if he can't bear to touch me. Or maybe afraid that I would pull away.
"I cannot let him live," he says, meaning Charles Lee. His words stumble over each other on their way out. "I cannot let him continue haunting my nightmares. But I would never forgive myself if you died—"
"Connor."
"Or if I died, and you live—"
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"
The sound of his native name arrests him, tying his tongue. We both recall the last time I used it on him. The memory stings, but neither of us flinch.
He finally stills, meeting my eyes. His are wide, lost, and I imagine him torn between two choices. But it does not have to be that way.
"I don't know why I don't call you that anymore," I begin, murmuring. "I should."
"No," he chokes out, shrinking away. "Too much death." I know what he means. His mother. Kanen'to:kon. His ghosts.
"But it is still your name." I touch my hands to his face, winding my fingers into the raven black locks, willing him to look at me. "It is a part of you, and you shouldn't try to change that. I shouldn't have tried to change you."
"Naomi—"
"No, Raton, listen to me," I say firmly, afraid that if I don't finish now, I never will. "You let me seek my revenge, and now I'm doing the same. I know what it's like to want—to need someone dead. You're doing this for your people and for yourself. I shouldn't have tried to take that away from you."
The ghost of his touch traces my face, as if he can't quite believe that I'm real. "You deserve better," he breathes, the words catching.
"I don't want better."
His trembling grip on me tightens. "What if I die? What if you—" He inhales sharply, as if the thought caused him a physical pain. "I cannot lose you."
Will Charles Lee really be the last enemy? I don't know. Will Connor's people finally be safe? I don't know. But one thing I do know for certain.
Connor is as afraid of losing me as I am of him.
And though I know it is selfish, that knowledge comforts me. But I will allow myself to be selfish for now.
My voice is clear when I speak, each syllable unhurried. "We are Assassins, Connor. We risk our lives all the time. One day I'll die. One day you'll die. Maybe even the both of us together. But until that day comes, we will fight. I want no better life than that."
Eyes closed, he exhales slowly and rests his forehead against mine. I let my hands trail across his back, finding comfort in the familiar feel of him. His arms do the same and circle around my shoulders, gripping me as if I'm the only thing left that's holding him up. The sight must be unusual to any passerby. A tall, broad boy propped against a lean, wiry girl.
"Neither do I," he murmurs. His breath stirs my hair, sending shivers down my spine. Then he draws back to look at me, eyes wide with a new urgency that wasn't there before. "Naomi, I... When all this is over, will you—"
But he doesn't get to finish before I press my lips to his.
I always thought kissing him would be tentative, timid, maybe even unenjoyable. I have never been more wrong.
He responds immediately, the desperation in his motions matching my own. We fumble for a little while at first, since neither of us are experienced, but we quickly find out where we belong. His hand at the nape of my neck, my fingers framing his face. We fit against each other like two parts of one. We should have done this a long time ago.
But kissing him wasn't an act of bravery. It was cowardice. I know why I did it, of course, other than the obvious reason that I've wanted to for a long time. I knew what he was going to say, what hope he was going to give me. It would be a distraction for us both. Even now, with our bodies so close that there is no closer, Charles Lee stands between us, an invisible divide. Connor will not give up his fight—nor do I want him to—but I will not have him if I cannot have all of him.
I will be content to wait. For now.
"Save it," I gasp when we finally break apart—not because either of us wanted to stop, of course, but the alternative would be suffocating. Against my skin, I feel his face pull into a frown, confused. "Save it for when all this is over.
"I'll be here, Connor," I add, murmuring against his jaw. His body shudders in my grasp, and I'm surprised how a simple act like that can have such an effect on him. "I'll be here."
I tell myself to force my hands to my side, to walk away before we lose ourselves in each other again. But I don't. I can't.
Neither can he, it seems.