She swiveled her gaze to the town again. Worry creased her brow. “I think I should go with you.”
“Sage,” Marcus warned in a low voice. “There’s no reason for you to come with me. I will give the book to Guillume and meet you back here. Nothing will happen.”
She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. Her horse danced beneath her anxiously.
Marcus urged his horse beside hers. “It will be well. You’ll see.” With a spur, he drove his horse down the road. “I will be back.”
He rode forward, casting one last look back at her. She sat on her horse, watching him with apprehension beneath the leaves of a tree. He half waved.
She didn’t move.
He quickly looked ahead. He didn’t like leaving her. But this would all be over as soon as he rid himself of this book. The faster, the better. Then he could return to her. He cantered his horse into the town.
As he entered, merchants called out to the patrons.
“A candle that will last a fortnight!” a woman, with dark hair and a stained apron, exclaimed from her position behind a small stand.
“The sweetest bread you’ve ever tasted!” a fat man, with crumbs in his dark beard, proclaimed from the doorway of a shop.
The well-trodden dirt street was crowded. Farmers strolled past him, carrying baskets of vegetables. A child dodged through the legs of people, chasing a duck. A woman shouted a name from the doorway of a wattle and daub house.
Marcus scanned the road and houses lining it. He didn’t see any sign of guards or assassins or Templar knights. He had been watchful ever since they left the cave, searching for the last assassin.
Now, he recalled how he and Guillume used to play knights in the field beside the inn, the inn where he was now heading to meet his cousin. When they were children, Guillume had to be the one to find the treasure. Once, Guillume wouldn’t play with him for days after Marcus had defeated him in mock battle.
Guillume always had to win.
Prickles danced up Marcus’s arms even though the sun was warm. His instincts had told him not to tell Guillume about Rose. And he had followed those instincts without really knowing why. Unease spread through him. He rode through the throng of villagers and merchants, scanning the surrounding area.
The sounds of the merchants faded, and the street emptied of people as he rode down the street. He past cottages and farms. He was approaching the outskirts of the town. Marcus saw the inn in the distance. A one-story wooden structure. The Dragon’s Den.
He examined the area as he approached, looking for anything unusual. Anxiety tightened the muscles in his back. Marcus cursed silently. What was he worried about? Nothing was going to happen. He was going to give the book to Guillume, get his payment, and leave. That was it. But why were his fists clenched around the reins? Why was he tense with warning? It must be because Sage had put thoughts in his mind—thoughts about Guillume hiring men to kill him. It had tainted his thoughts about his cousin.
He continued to the inn. But his mind wandered back to Sage, waiting patiently for him outside the town. And then, he realized his mistake. The Sage he knew would never wait patiently for anything. He shifted in the saddle to look over his shoulder, half-expecting to find her on the road behind him.
The road was empty.
He considered returning to make sure she was safe but then decided otherwise. He had to finish his task. Once he was no longer in possession of the book, it would be over, and they would be free and safe from the assassin.
He led his horse around the back of the inn. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw a white horse tied to a tree’s branch in the back. He glanced at the stable across the yard from the inn. It had a roof to shelter the animals, but the side was open. There were horses in the stables, but he would never be able to tell if they belonged to an assassin or other patrons in the inn.
He brought his horse to a tree next to the white horse and dismounted. He wrapped the reins around a branch, scanning the area for others. Guillume must be inside waiting. His gaze lingered on the stables. There were plenty of dark spaces for an assassin to hide in. His stare centered on the stables. Unease crawled up his spine. Something didn’t feel quite right.
He reached into one of the saddlebags and pulled out the book. He cast another glance at the stables. Trepidation filled him, yet he resolvedly walked toward the inn door.
As he approached, the door suddenly flung open.
Marcus pulled back, his hand instinctively going to the pommel of his sword, his body tensing. A man with dark bowl-cut hair stepped from the inn. His mustache drooped over his pointed beard. Marcus relaxed.
“Guillume,” he whispered.
