Her Assassin's Heart - Book 2

Chapter 11

 She white-knuckled the seat of the cart until her fingers were numb. It was cold, and had her teeth not been tightly clenched, they would have been violently chattering. The rain had stopped, leaving her drenched clothing to cling to her body.

Tense silence had settled over them in an uncomfortable cloud. Even the stranger, who drove them, seemed to be brooding, and he kept his thoughts, whatever they may have been, to himself. Cassandra, however, was almost unaware of the man's presence beside her.

Lavinia was lying ill in some dirty, Scottish hovel when she should have been well cared for by the best physicians money could buy in a fine house in London. If only there had been some better man than Ethan, a man who could care for her the way she deserved, a man for whom money would never be an issue. Lavinia should have waited to marry Ethan until he had better means to provide for her, or maybe it would have been better if she had turned him down and forgotten about him.

Almost as soon as the thoughts entered her head, she felt a pang of shame. Ethan, surely, was doing all he could, and Lavinia would never have been happy with anyone else. Truly, she wouldn't have had it any other way, for where love was plentiful, the scarcity of money mattered not at all.

"Lass?" Cassandra was startled by the sound of the voice.

The cart had come to a stop before a quaint, stone cottage surrounded by brightly colored flowers, and the stranger was standing beside her, his hand extended. The heavy atmosphere that had hung about Cassandra's shoulders since she'd come to Scotland withdrew, and the sudden urge to have a good, hearty cry pressed on her chest.

"Lass?" Their driver's thick brogue met her ears again, and she realized he must have said something else that she had failed to hear.

Without a word, she took his offered hand and clamored to the ground with less grace than a wooden figurine, keeping her eyes on the cozy, little house. Somehow, her mind had conjured up an image of a decrepit shack with more holes than thatch for a roof and walls that were days from crumbling. This, however, was entirely the opposite of her imaginings.

"I'll be needin' that arm back now." She looked up at the smirking stranger and then down at the hand she was still clutching in her own. With some effort—before the cold had numbed her hands—one finger at a time, she released him.

As he began unloading the luggage, she continued her scrutiny of the cottage. A trail of smoke danced out of the single chimney, spiraling into the sky until it was dispersed by the wind. A thick blanket of ivy had covered the wall to the left of the door in a sheet of dark green foliage. The door itself looked as though it had recently been painted. Everything was nearly arranged with obvious care, and Lavinia's handiwork was evident in the gently nurtured flower garden.

Cassandra bit down on her lip, unable to move. Beyond the door, what awaited her? At least while she stood out here, there was the possibility that Lavinia yet lived. After all, once she knew for certain that her sister was dead, she could never unknow it again.

"Lady?" Eliza said quietly. "We can't stand out here forever."

The gentle words struck Cassandra to the core, and she swallowed heavily. She was an Antrucha, and Antruchas never ran from hardship. Arching a brow at Eliza, Cassandra looked the girl from the corner of her eyes. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of the stranger watching her intently. Turning, she regarded him with an air of regality.

"I suppose we ow you our thanks, Mr.—" She looked at him pointedly, waiting for him to spout of his name. A name she intended to forget as soon as he was out of sight if not before.