Unbroken (Haytham Kenway)

Chapter 2

When Clara woke, it was to voices murmuring quietly. Opening her eyes required far to much effort, so she opted for a quiet groan. The conversation stopped and footsteps came to her side. "Ah, you're awake. How is your head?"

She cracked open her eyelids and blinked slowly. The man from the forest was standing to her right while another waited further away. "My head?" She mumbled curiously, trying to sit up.

The stranger with grey eyes gently pushed her down. "You need rest. You suffered a rather nasty injury. Was it inflicted by the wolves or the fall from your horse?" He questioned, keeping his voice quiet enough to not hurt her sensitive head.

"No, I-I - my husband - he was - there was so much blood and I had to go anywhere else." She took a calming breath, but still trembled. "I ran down the stairs but m-my boots were slick. I slipped and fell.

"Your husband is dead?"

The words were like a slap to the face. She flinched, her cheeks losing color. "I am sorry for such trauma to befall you." He murmured, more sincere than she expected. All she could force in response was a terse nod.

"Please pardon my lack of manners, I am Haytham Kenway."

"A pleasure, Mr. Kenway. My name is Clara Milford. Thank you for saving me; I'm not sure I'd have escaped with my life otherwise." She graciously tilted her head, reclined as she was. None of her face revealed her shock. She'd heard his name at the secret meetings. He was somehow involved with her husband.

"Please, just Haytham. The pleasure is all mine, though I wish we might've met under better circumstances than these. I was a business associate of Lord Midford, and I am sorry for the loss of him." His tongue must've been silver, Clara decided, to be so delightful to hear. It was becoming ridiculous just how much she enjoyed hearing him speak.

Somehow she nodded when she was supposed to. "I suppose I should go back. There is much to deliberate, and I fear the longer I stall, the more difficult it will be to sort through."

"The doctor has advised against you leaving my estate until you are well again. You are welcome to stay in the meanwhile." Haytham offered, his hands behind his back. He was the epitome of business-like formality and propriety; the spitting image of a snooty, rich Englishman on the outside.

But Clara knew from experience that there was always more to a person's story, so she ignored his stiff attitude. "May I send a letter? H-His body needs to be taken for rites and burial."

"Of course. Every room in this manor that is not locked is yours to utilize." A playful edge gleamed in his eye. "A word of advice? Stay away from the kitchen. Cook is rather... dedicated. Should you need food, you may ask someone to bring it for you. Should you need anything not otherwise provided, do not hesitate to come to me."

"Thank you, Mr. Haytham. May I ask..." she started, but trailed off. Being rude with such a forward question wasn't wise.

"All questions have a right to be asked, Lady Midford. A bit of candor is refreshing in this world of polite society. You would not be looked down upon for most any of your queries in this home." He gently encouraged her to speak up.

She was still hesitant, but nodded. "Why are you helping me, even now? How did you find me in the forest? How do - did - you know my husband?"

"I am helping you partially because I owe it to my friend's memory, but mostly because you need it. I heard your horse on my way to your estate to discuss business, and veered off the path. Once I heard the howling I knew someone was being hunted. Your husband and I were associates, although I don't believe we've ever met at your home. The norm is Boston or the like." He finished his last answer, sitting down in a chair next to the bed.

"Mister Haytham, have you ever heard of 'Templars?'" She inquired curiously, her hands fiddling with the sheets. Surely she could trust him after all he had done for her. What reason would he have to hurt her all the sudden?

His expression became unreadable. Not blank, just indecipherable. "Why do you ask?"

"I am no dainty housewife with her head in the clouds. I was aware of my husbands meetings, and sometimes there were raised voices. I heard... a great many words, but no meanings." She explained, meeting his gaze evenly as she'd been trained to do all her life for social events.

"What sorts of words, if I may ask?" He inquired.

"Things like 'Templar,' 'precursor,' and talk of assassins. Which, in hindsight, could explain his murder." Her voice took a bitter edge near the end, hands digging subtly into the tidy sheets.

"I see. Pardon my asking on such a sensitive subject, but what do you remember from your husband's death? Does anything in particular stand out vividly?" He pressed, his voice bordering on urgent.

She frowned, but it was getting difficult to concentrate. Her head was stuffed with cotton or molasses, or maybe both. "I-I can't..."

Haytham made a voice of understanding and nodded. "That would be the head injury, I'm afraid." He stood, a small smile on his lips. "Should you feel able enough, you are welcome to teatime with me this afternoon."

"Thank you, Mister Haytham." She said gratefully as he left.

He turned and inclined his head in acknowledgement before exiting. When he left, Clara was alone with her thoughts. Her nightmares. She sat up against the headboard stiffly, something falling from over her as she did so. A cursory glance at the heavy material sated her earlier curiosity on the location of his coat. He had lent it to her.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back, and she dissolved into tears. Everything game rushing back to her. Nothing logical or orderly, no. Just the stench of blood, the warm slickness of it against the palms. Her husband's dead eyes staring into the void.

The residual fear and guilt and grief in her gut hardened and knotted into something sharp. Something dark and twisted, glowing with hate. She would hunt that woman down, whoever she was, and she would enjoy enacting revenge. Of that, Clara was certain.