Pairing: ARTHUR X OC
Word count: 3297
Rating: M
I recommend you listen to Millionaire by Chris Stapleton for this chapter.
PROLOGUE: WE'RE MORE GHOSTS THAN MEN
I got a woman with eyes that shine
Down deep as a diamond mine
She's my treasure so very rare
She's made me a millionaire
Arthur slipped into his coat, watching as Dutch and Micah got onto their respective horses. The wind picked up and it became hard for Arthur to keep his hat on as he stepped out of the little shack, his gloved hand keeping the rugged hat in place. Blue eyes scanned the white horizon as he climbed onto his mount; a black stead borrowed from one of the guys.
"It's not far Arthur!" Dutch bellowed over the wind and snow. Some flakes caught in his black beard, ice forming on the tips of his long hair.
Micah closed in behind Arthur. "We found the first O'Driscoll-infested house and it went fine," Micah cackled. "Found a darling little peach - Sadie that is. But otherwise, got to kill some stupid O'Driscolls."
"What's to say this ain't gonna be the death of us?" Arthur replied, steadying his horse.
Micah smiled, and it cut his stupid face in half, and Arthur would give his left hand if it meant he could carve his knife into Micah's face.
After they'd found Mrs. Adler and killed the entire lot of squatters at her house, they'd heard wind of another place. Arthur was surprised to hear from Charles that there might be another home available to raid. Only thing was that he suspected O'Driscolls had taken over, as these parts were in their complete territory.
"Here's the plan!" Dutch bellowed. Arthur gave Micah one last glance from under the tip of his hat, then moved his horse alongside Dutch's. "We need to find a way to spy in on the house. Not like last time. Almost got myself killed! So this time, we sneak in, and if we can make it, we go in. On my orders!"
With that, Dutch, Arthur, Charles, and Micah rode off into the blizzard. It was a long ride. Tenacious. Snow seemed to get into every nook and cranny of Arthur's clothing. No matter which way he placed himself, freezing bits of ice found home on his warm skin. Shivers sliced through his body as they headed uphill, his gloved-hands gripping the reins of his stead. The cold made his mouth dry, the skin of his lips cracking under the mask he'd pulled over his face.
From the top of a hill, with snow beating against his face, Arthur saw the little house. Wooden built, two small barns out back, and a coop that was clearly being used for storage. From his vantage point, Arthur also saw the dim glow of a candle through a window.
"Here we are boys!" Dutch reared his mount. "Let's go!"
They rode down the hill like wind. Fast, harsh, and tenacious. Arthur left his mount hitched on a tree just beyond the eyesight of anyone watching from the house. The four of them marched in the knee-deep snow until Arthur could not feel his feet anymore. He made a small mental note to go hunting for pelts.
Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, brought him close. "You take the back with Charles," he grumbled, "and Micah and I will take each side."
With a quick nod, Arthur dipped his hat and started his way towards the back of the house. Charles close by, they trekked through the snow. The two men were slightly jealous of the clear warmth of the house, proved by the thin sliver of smoke coming from the chimney.
"You think we'll find anything interesting in there?" Charles asked over the deafening screech of the wind.
"We need food," Arthur replied. "And money. Anything we can grab in there is useful. If we can grab 'em off dead O'Driscolls, even better."
That seemed to satiate Charles, and the men went back to the task at hand.
Arthur crept along the wooden wall until he came beside the window. Strangely it was opened, seeping warmth, the smell of cooking meat, and the voices of many men within. Frowning, he leaned against the wall and slid down, gaining more range to what he would hear.
"They're on the run, anyway," one was saying. "It's going to be hard to find him."
"You'll need a trap," this from a voice closer to the window.
Charles crept until he was standing on the corner, eyes on Arthur and Dutch.
"If you're looking for 'em, sweetheart, you'll never find 'em," One added.
Sweetheart? Arthur frowned, looking at his comrade with a skeptical look. There was rustling noise, clearly more than two bodies. A cough. A groan.
"So you came to us to find him?" A new voice. Made a total of three unknown bodies.
"Let the little lady have her fun, will you?"
Arthur's eyes locked with Charles'. The latter's eyes went round not only because that had been a new voice which added to a total of four O'Driscolls but also because there was a woman in there. Five individuals, one of unknown intention.
Arthur quickly crept from his perch to join Charles. "We need to get a move on," he grumbled. "There's a woman in there. Possibly young by what I heard. She could be in danger too."
"That ain't our problem, though," Charles said tentatively. Arthur had once been in the opposite situation, where he hadn't given any cares for saving ladies. Now was different.
Ignoring him, Arthur trudged in the snow to find Dutch. The latter was peaking through a window, the slight glow of candles illuminating his face; long, straight nose, dark-set eyebrows.
"There's a woman in there," he said once Arthur had reached him. "There's no guards outside. They're drunk. It'll be easy."
They regrouped in front of the house, just lightly to the side where no one could see them through the window. Arthur's heart was beginning to hammer into his chest. No matter how many times he'd done robberies or infiltration, he couldn't stop the way his body reacted every time. Sweat in places he didn't know he could make sweat. Trembling lips. Racing heartbeat. His hands, however, always remained steady.
"Sweet and easy, boys," Dutch grumbled.
Like ghosts, they pulled from the shadows. Four men, hats dipped over their eyes, masks covering their faces, melted from the darkness. The glow of the candles illuminated the powerful burst of invaders within the home. Wood tore from the hinges of the door, glass shattered from the bullets firing from guns and missing their targets. Bodies moved with practice; fire, reload, aim, kill.
Little explosions ripped from the weapons being used to survive. The entire cabin was filled with noises of death and murder. Blood splattered from open wounds, brains staining the wood of the walls. Candles blew out from the wind screeching in from the open door.
At the end of it, Arthur still stood beside the door, Micah, Dutch, and Charles to his left. Arthur's gun was smoking, aimed at the last O'Driscoll he'd shot. His chest was heaving as the blue of his orbs caught the candlelight, scanning, until he met the woman surprisingly still sitting at the kitchen table.
Arthur had seen may women in his time. Not that he was old. He'd bedded some. Played with some. Talked with many. He'd enjoyed the company of many women, as he was not unfamiliar with the likes of them. He loved their bodies, obviously. He could enjoy the warmth they could bring to him, the release, the entirety of being touched. He'd loved only two.
Needless to say, Arthur had seen many women in his lifetime. But her... she could easily be the most beautiful woman he'd ever lain eyes on.
Even though her hair was the color of caramel (brunettes were more his type) and her eyes were black as midnight, Arthur was stunned for a second. His eyes came to rest on the smooth planes of her face, the slight redness of her cheeks, and the fullness of her lips. His body started to tingle. Fingers itched to smooth the tension from her eyes, to feel the plumpness of her mouth.
Then he snapped out of it. He aimed his weapon at her.
"Woah, there, cowpoke," Micah grumbled. The rest of the boys had holstered their weapons. Only Arthur was still armed and ready to fire.
Risking one last glance at the woman, Arthur carefully holstered his weapon. He lowered his mask, revealing the small itch of a beard to the warm air of the cabin. That's when he saw the strangeness of the entire situation.
The woman, not much older than her mid-twenties, was hogtied to the chair. Feet and hands, unable to hurt anyone or defend herself. What was stranger, however, was what she was wearing.
Arthur had nothing against women wearing pants. But those were pants he'd never seen before. Loose and tight all at once, exposing curves. Pockets on each side of her thighs. She also wore leather boots, which had to have cost her a colossal amount of money. A loose cotton long sleeve covered her upper half, the material a dark blue. She wore no coat or any coverings to hide her from the ferocious weather.
She was also gagged.
"What in the hell?" he groaned.
She was struggling against her bonds, her swan-black eyes stuck on him of all people. Arthur's skin tingled again. Sweat coated her forehead, which was surprising, given the weather. Her caramel locks, so long they fell beyond Arthur's eyesight, were messy and clearly needed a brush.
"Charles," Dutch barked, "get her talking. Micah, loot the bodies."
As they watched Charles take the humid gag from the woman's mouth, the hairs at the back of Arthur's neck stood on end.
There was something vicious in her eyes. Something he'd seen many times; it had stared back at him and he'd stared at it right in the face. It was the same vivacity, the same tenacious anger he'd harbored into his own soul. The way the world had hardened him, he could see the reflection of it now within the blackness of this girl's eyes.
"Lady!" Dutch was saying, trying to catch her attention. But she was staring at Arthur. "You're going to be okay now. We just want to ask you some questions."
Arthur began looking around the house. He couldn't take her heavy stare, the perpetual blackness of her orbs, the emptiness of them. They had come here to rob, take what they most dearly needed, and be on their way.
"Madam," Dutch continued. By now, the wet gag was hanging from her neck. The girl exercised her jaw, eyes finally finding home somewhere else. Arthur was relieved of that. "We won't hurt you. I promise."
She made a sound deep in her throat that took Arthur by surprise. A growl?
"Really, miss?" Dutch added. "You are safe. I swear it." When Arthur looked back at her, she was staring at him once again. She had deep-set eyebrows, thick and curved over her eyes. Her nose was small and straight, as if cut from stone. Just over the fabric of her shirt was a long and elegant neck. This woman was made to either be a circus actress or a singer, not alone in the winter wilderness with O'Driscolls.
"Nothin' on these boys," Micah grumbled, throwing away useless papers he'd found on the bodies.
Dutch sighed heavily. "Micah, take upstairs with Charles," he ordered in that baritone voice of his. "Arthur, stay with me and little miss… something here."
"I think she wants to stay mute," Arthur grumbled. Charles and Micah headed upstairs, not with their usual banter. The girl seemed to take Arthur's comment with anger.
"Before we untie you," Dutch said, "would you like to tell us your name?"
Her black eyes slid from Arthur to land on Dutch. Her brow furrowed and something quick and menacing flashed in her features, but it was gone quickly. Arthur had enough a mind of his own to put his hand on his revolver. The girl was still tied to the chair, but something slick was crawling up on Arthur's flesh.
"Arya." Her voice was hard, like frozen rain when it hits the roof of a house. Arthur remembered what it was like to huddle beside his son, listening to hail hammer on the roof. Mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.
"That's a pretty name," Dutch added. "Where are you from, Arya?"
She frowned deeper. Jokingly, Arthur imagined that if she wasn't tied, she'd try to stick it to Dutch one way or another.
"I'm from… Delaware."
The hesitation was not what got to Arthur. Yes, she could be lying about where she was from, but didn't everybody lie about their origins occasionally? What triggered something in Arthur was the accent. Sweet, low, and something he'd never heard. He'd been around enough to hear all kinds of accents, but this was something he'd never heard before.
It seemed like Dutch thought the same thing. "Never new folks in Delaware spoke with such an accent," he joked, a smirk cutting his face.
The woman – Arya – jerked her chin. "If you would be kind enough to untie me," she said, her accent still catching Arthur off guard, "I'd like to go."
Dutch put up his hand so fast, even Arthur didn't see it. "Now, now, little lady," he grumbled. "I'd just like to know why the O'Driscolls had you tied up like fresh meat."
Silence filled the room. Arthur took off his gloves and passed a hand over his face. "We just want…" he trailed off, meeting her dark gaze. Shivers ran down his spine. "It ain't like the O'Driscolls to leave a woman… untouched."
Dutch cleared his throat, albeit awkwardly. "Why were they questioning you?"
Again, that defiant chin jerk. "Because I was following them."
The admission was surprising. A woman following the O'Driscolls?
"You're the law?" Arthur asked, perplexed.
Arya made a weird gesture with her mouth, scoffed out, "Do I look like the law to you, gentlemen?"
"Then why were you following them?" Arthur pressed. He put both palms on the table, leaning closer. This time, with the glow of the candlelight, he could see freckles on the bridge of her nose. It made him think of his younger days, when he himself had a wash of freckles on his cheeks. Only two remained, however.
"They could bring me to the man who murdered my brother," she admitted coolly.
Dutch stirred. "Colm?" he asked.
She veered her icy glare on him. Shrugged. Bit the inside of her cheek. All with the allure of utter viciousness. "Yes," she replied. Something in the way she stared at Dutch made Arthur believe she was hiding something. Either it was the answer to Dutch's question or something else altogether, Arthur didn't want to know.
"Then, little miss Arya-" Dutch began.
"Don't call me little," she growled.
Dutch smiled widely, like Arthur had never seen him do. "Oh, I like you!" he bellowed, pointing at her. "If you're planning on getting your hands on Colm O'Driscoll, then you should be riding with us."
Arthur straightened, looked at his boss with shock. Wasn't he the one that said to stop bringing strays in?
"Do you have information on them?" Dutch continued.
"Dutch!"
Micah ran into the kitchen, his eyes wild with bloodlust. Arthur's skin crawled.
"I see some comin'!" he panted. "Three on horseback, maybe more!"
Dutch considered that for a second, before jumping into action. "Go back upstairs with Charles and hold the windows," he ordered. "Arthur, take the back of the house. I'll take the front."
"I can handle a weapon, you know," Arya said. In the little mess, they'd all forgotten about her.
"The little lady speaks!" Micah cackled, but cowed under the growl Dutch gave him, and scurried up the stairs.
"Arthur," Dutch grumbled, "untie her. Give her a gun."
The order was banal and so unbecoming of Dutch. Give a woman a weapon? Could she really handle herself?
Arthur did as he was told, however, and used his knife to cut her bonds. Up close, she smelled of lake water and fresh air. Her wavy hair was soft against his cheek as he brushed on it to free her ankles. And when she stood, much smaller than he would have guessed, she looked up at him with a deep frown. "You gonna give me a gun or what?" she growled, still with that accent of hers he couldn't place.
Grumbling, he handed her his revolver and took out his rifle. "Cover the windows," he said lowly. When she turned and walked away from him, he could see how her trousers hugged her curves and he knew that if this woman accepted to ride with them, Mrs. Grimshaw would have a field day with her.
The shooting started not long after. Micah could be heard upstairs, roaring his pleasure from the top of his lungs. Windows and glass broke all over again. Wood splintered and shattered, curses thrown in the air like confetti, and one thing was sure, that little Arya was fending for herself good enough.
When it was all over, and the house was once again rendered a total mess, the five of them stood in the kitchen. Arya stood near the entrance, still gripping Arthur's revolver. The latter was panting beside Dutch in the kitchen. Charles and Micah were staring at the woman from their perch in the stairs.
"Little lady knows how to shoot," Micah taunted again. His blonde hair was stuck to his sweaty face, and when he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips, even Arthur shivered in disgust.
"Call me little again, and I'll show you just how good I can shoot," Arya growled, turning to face Micah.
Just then, the door burst open. A gush of wind blew across the kitchen, cold and brutal. A lone O'Driscoll, desperate and terrified, came staggering in, aiming aimlessly around the cabin. In a movement so quick and precise, Arya had wormed her way into obtaining that man's knife. Arthur was readying to draw and save her life, but the woman had sunk the knife so deep in the O'Driscoll's throat that blood was already pooling on the wooden floor. The body made a sickening thud as it hit the ground.
The silence didn't last long, but in it, Arthur saw no evidence of fear in Arya's face. She was stoic, brows pulled, lips puckered, as she sheathed the knife into the belt of her trousers. She wasn't even trembling.
"Okay!" Micah laughed as he jumped down from his perch. He strolled by Arya, giving her a light tap on the shoulder. "I like you."
Dutch was laughing too. "You're welcome to come with us, miss," he said, then gesture to her bloody hands. "We could use someone like you."
Her silence was answer enough. She was strangely attractive, with blood speckled on her face, anger written all over her features, hair in a mess.
"Arthur, you can ride with her." Dutch's command brought Arthur out of his reverie.
He was not pleased by that. He didn't want to get any closer to the strange vivacity of her. It seemed like it would pull him in, too.
He gestured for her to follow him. She grabbed the O'Driscoll's coat and followed him out into the still-raging blizzard.
Arthur's mount waited for them at the stable. Everyone mounted, Micah yapping on about something that seemed to displease Charles, because they were going at it. Arthur was more concentrated on the woman he was currently gripping by the forearm and helping up onto the saddle, in front of him. He wasn't comfortable with having her behind him yet. When she moved her legs so she could straddle the horse, Arthur frowned deeply. Could this woman get any stranger?
