Of course, as soon as Thomas slammed open the door to the hunting lodge, he ended up with a musket levelled right at him.
Fucking hell on the high water.
Petite, the blonde woman was slim of frame. Her lovely, full mouth, tangled, golden hair and bright, cerulean eyes didn't hurt none too much either. But no matter who it was, Thomas never took too kindly to anyone who had him at the business end of a gun. And this one didn't look none too afraid it use it. Nope, not judging by her venomous expression of glee and the tight set of her square jaw.
The swipes of what he could only assume was black war paint slashing along her cheeks was right unsettling. Her black and white striped cloak tossed about her shoulders appeared woven of coarse, homespun wool. Combined with the duo of feathers fastened along the crown of her head, she appeared more savage than Connor. That certainly was a feat in and of itself. Like Connor, she also dressed in a more masculine manner. Beneath the cloak, she sported a black leather tunic edged in white. It matched her tan buckskin breeches, which were stitched up along the sides, and her tall, black boots. About her waist were a trio of belts sheathed with a couple of daggers, a small golden tin and her powder horn. They were in turn lashed about a white, fur sash. She also wore black leather gloves and matching leather gauntlets. He honestly couldn't tell if they bore those mystifying hidden blades, similar to Connor's.
Then again, his eyes were trained on the barrel of the musket aimed straight at his heart as she roughly bellowed, "Who in the bloody 'ell is this lobcock?!"
"Fuck off, ya crazed cun-"
"Hickey-"
"This blasted 'lil shit started it!" he barked at Connor as she strolled up the stairs behind him, having finished stabling her horse out back.
The blonde hellion dangerously leered, "Oh, and I'll be fuckin' ecstatic to end it too, ya sonofabit-!"
"Peace, Emily," Connor raised a hand of placation and nodded at Thomas. Ignoring his incensed expression, she swiftly added, "We are allies, Thomas and I."
Frosty gaze narrowing with suspicion, Emily curled her lip and sniped, "Ya sure, hon?" Gaze sweeping over Thomas like a hunter toying with her prey before pouncing, she snorted, "He be a handsome 'nough lout, yeah? But I still don't be likin' the cut 'o his jib." Cocking back the hammer of her musket, she derisively spat out her chewing tobacco onto the floorboards. It barely missed Hickey's boots, causing him to jump back and fix her with a malevolent glare, even as he kept his hands raised in surrender.
"Ya be outta ya blasted mind, ya poxy wench!"
"First off, ya blaggart, it be 'Emily Burke.' Or 'Calamity Mily' if ya know me. Which ya fuckin' don't," Emily smirked, poking her bayonet into his chest in warning when he attempted to sneer out a retort. "Secondly? Shut yer filthy mouth, boy, 'n consider yourself lucky. If Connor weren't traipsing up 'ere with ya, I'd have blown yer brains out a hundred yards or so back there. Ya know, when I first spotted ya?" she jerked her head in the direction of the open door of the cabin. "In the meantime, good to see ya, Con!" she shot a vulturine smile at the Assassin. "It's been hella long since we be meetin' out here on the Frontier."
"Too long," Connor nodded. "If I may ask, where's Caleb?"
"Oh, him?" Emily chuckled, though her finger didn't falter from the trigger of her weapon. "I wore 'im out plenty last night," she winked, "So much so that I'm 'fraid the bed took a sound 'lil beatin'."
"I…I see," Connor immediately blushed and swallowed down her embarrassment.
Emily let out a crude guffaw. "Forgive me, girlie. I be forgettin' ya be a green as a saplin', poor dear!"
"Seriously," Thomas muttered next to Connor, "Ya'd think she's been livin' in a cave all this time." However, he hastily shut his mouth as both Emily and Connor shot him a sharp glare of admonishment.
Fuckin' Assassin women, mate.
"Anyways, it took me sharpshooter 'bout half the day to go gettin' ready," Emily snickered before her expression fell to serious again. "Headed out 'bout an hour ago. I was cleanin' up a bit before catchin' up with 'im. We'll be headin' back to the outskirts 'o Boston, as per usual. Gotta keep them rural roads all safe 'n whatnot."
Letting out an annoyed sigh, Thomas testily asked, "So, ya gonna get rid 'o your musket pointed at me heart already or wot? For fuck's sake-"
"He's got a right foul mouth on 'im, that much be true," Emily cut him off, ignoring his curse, "So much so that ya should have been beaten as a child."
"Oh, I'd love to give ya a right proper beatin' right 'bout now, ya mingy git!" he snarled.
"And I'd like to see ya try!" she sneered right back.
"Miss Burke," Connor chided.
"Fine, fine," Emily huffed. Gaze darting back and forth between the other two, she chortled, "Frankly, I'm shocked ya haven't knifed 'im through the ribs yet. Or," she glanced down at his crotch, causing him to slightly wince, "Though his man bits. Judging by that lewd 'lil glint in his eye, somethin' tells me he'd miss 'em more 'en life it very self, eh Thomas?"
"Balmy 'lil bitch," he hissed, though not loud enough for Emily to hear.
Somehow, Connor picked up on it easily enough, for she shot him a look of reproach as she murmured, "Do no tempt me."
Seeing Thomas roll his eyes as Connor stubbornly crossed her arms, Emily threw back her head and cackled. On the other hand, she finally lowered her musket. Dropping the butt of it to floorboards, she causally leaned on it while running a quick, gloved hand through her flaxen locks. "So, what brings y'all out this way?" she asked with genuine curiosity, "Specifically, the city boy?" she sent a feral grin at Hickey. "He seems rather outta his element and too far outta town from 'is usual foppish pursuits."
Taking a threatening step forward and about to reel off an insult, Hickey was stopped by Connor's firm hand against his chest. Lithely moving in front of him, she solemnly said, "General Davenport originally. And now, Eleanor Mallow-"
"That high-falutin', redcoat bitch?" Emily grit her teeth, expression sliding to murderous as Connor nodded in agreement. "What, her daddy done gone 'n sent 'er out a-murderin' again?"
"Somethin' like that," Thomas grunted, "Along with 'is Hessian dog."
As the two women fell into hushed conversation over what'd occurred over the last few days, he glanced around and took in the simple, two-room log cabin. Roughly only about 800 square feet of space, combined with the small stables out back only large enough to hold two horses, the house was obviously meant for short stays. Likely during the spring and summer in the hunting season. Thankfully, the logs comprising the place were sealed up pretty tight. They seemed to do a decent job at keeping the cold and draft at bay.
One area contained a single bed on an iron frame. The hearth sat a few feet from the foot of it, simple and built of grey stone. The room they all stood in held a crude but heavy stove, a wide washing basin sitting over a cupboard and a large larder next to the window. Hanging over the stove on an iron grate suspended from the ceiling were a cadre of cast-iron pots and pans. In front of the larder was a dark, wooden square table and two chairs. Next to it sat a worn out, leather chair that'd seen better days. Due to only two windows in the place, the light was dim, save the flicker of a few candlesticks scattered throughout.
"Somethin' be on your mind, Connor?" Emily tilted her head to the side in question as the assassin slipped into silence.
Connor glanced back at where Thomas had dropped into the chair. He appeared distracted, warming his hands in front of the iron grate of the stove. Without further ado, Connor jerked her head for Emily to follow her outside. The two women quickly made their way to the front patio, closing the door behind themselves. Careful not to lean against the rickety railings of the porch, Connor clasped her hands in front of herself and gathered her thoughts. Emily settled for staring out into the drifting snow, humming a little tune to herself. Having known Connor for just over a year, she was used to the other woman's long bouts of quiet.
"May ask your assistance for something?" Connor finally proposed.
"Anythin' for ya, sweetie," Emily grinned, giving her an efficient, two-fingered salute from her brow.
"Duncan is back in Boston, as Clipper should be by now," Connor began. "I need either you or Caleb to inform them to contact William de Saint-Prix as soon as possible. For the Hessian has him in his sights as his next target."
"Ain't that a flyin' shame?" Emily frowned, scratching her head for a moment.
"No doubt." Looking back at the cabin, Connor declared, "We should prove able to return to the city in the next three days or so. Nevertheless, I would rather ere on the side of caution than leave anything up to chance. Or in case we are delayed any further." Pulling out her pouch of coins and counting out a few, she pressed them into Emily's hand. "In thanks."
"Well, this'll be fun," the blonde pocketed the payment, "It'll go a long ways to helpin' with gettin' me 'n Caleb more supplies back in Boston."
"I would rather you officially join our Brotherhood," Connor lightly implored.
Letting out a hearty laugh, Emily shook her head to the contrary. "Much as I be likin' you folks 'n your outlook, I be the independent sort, through 'n through," she shrugged. "Plus, I can't claim that I be hatin' Templars for anything more than all sorts 'o selfish reasons."
Shaking her head in understanding, Connor replied, "Avenging your father and brother, of course."
"Ya see?" Emily knowingly said, "We both be orphans of a sort. But you be able to rise above yer past better than I."
"Hardly," Connor retorted. "Moreover, you have unwaveringly served the Brotherhood out here in the wild with Caleb. In various capacities and far better than most, I freely admit. Barring any sort of sacred ceremony, you are an Assassin in all but name."
"'Tis 'nough for me, I guarantee ya," Emily reiterated.
"I will not belabor the point-"
"Then don't," Emily chuckled. Nonetheless, she threw an arm about Connor's shoulders. "I get y'all, through 'n through. And I swear on my grave that I ain't never gonna betray ya. Or any 'o the others."
"It seems that for now," Connor murmured, stifling her initial instinct to flinch at the contact, "Your loyalty is all I may ask of you."
Heading back inside, Emily left the other two to go finish packing her things. Adding more logs to the fire within the stove, Connor withdrew to peruse the larder. It was fully stocked, thankfully.
"Well," Emily yelled out, clomping in from the bedroom after a while, "This is where we go partin' ways, hon." Spinning about in his chair, Thomas stared at the two. Mouth hanging open in disbelief, he was utterly astounded as Connor allowed Emily to freely pull her into an enthusiastic embrace.
"The storm will only strengthen over the night," Connor clucked to her, withdrawing and dropping her hands to Emily's arms, "Hence, you are welcome to stay."
"Eh, it be headin' north and I'm goin' south," Emily waved off. "'Sides, bein' indoors for the last few days or so has got me all jittery 'n such," she flexed her fingers for emphasis. "Furthermore, I gotta catch up with Caleb. So don't you worry none 'bout me."
"Safety and peace, then," Connor clasped a fist over her heart.
"Sure!" Emily replied, giving her other hand a squeeze of goodbye. "See ya when I see ya!" she briskly waved, turning on her heel and wandering outside.
"A pleasure, ya demented harridan," Thomas sarcastically snapped out.
"A pity 'bout ya, I gotta say," Emily barely spared him a glance. Gathering up her supplies, she gracefully slung her musket over her shoulder.
"Wot 'en?" he snarled.
"Yer mother shoulda drowned ya!" she taunted with a brassy hoot.
Before he could get in a word edgewise, the door slammed shut with a rattle.
Hickey retired to the bedroom with little complaint. Within a few minutes, Connor could easily make out his light snores. Taking her chance at privacy, she dragged the metal tub from the corner of the room to right in front of the glowing stove. Her preparations took a few trips to the well out back by the stables. However, after an hour or so of heating up pots of water on the stove and within its fire, she had a surprisingly warm bath ready. Double checking that Hickey still slept, she stripped down and stepped in. Meditating on her day for a bit, she dozed off for about a half hour or so.
The chill of water eventually woke her. Scrubbing herself clean with her usual soap she took with her on the road, she unbraided her hair and washed it as well. Dunking under the water one last time, she listened for any movement from the bedroom. Thankfully, there wasn't any. Stepping out of the tub, she dried off and slathered herself in a bit of scented oil to protect against cracked skin. She then pulled on her small clothes, long-john bottoms and her chemise. The cabin was almost too warm now, considering the roaring fire in the bedroom and the stove. But it was a minor complaint in the grand scheme of things. They had a solid accommodations against the storm, which was far more than they could hope for but a few hours ago.
"So," she heard a loud yawn behind her. Swiftly spinning about on her heel, she instinctively snatched up her loaded pistol and dagger from where she'd set them on the table before her bath. "What's for dinner, lass?" She dropped her weapons back in place at seeing Hickey idly braced in the doorway of the bedroom. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he ran a languid hand through his mussed, dark hair. It caused it to stand up at odd, spiky angles, making him look strangely harmless.
About to snap out a smart remark about how she wasn't a servant and he could damn well fix how own damn dinner, she opened her mouth to retort. Yet his loopy look of contentment bore no signal of heckling or derision. Pausing, she instead settled for pointing at the larder. "It is stocked with plenty of food and liquor," she steadily said before turning her back to him. It undoubtedly helped distract her from the fact that he only wore a thin undertunic and breeches. All in all, it left little to the imagination concerning the hard, solid planes of his torso. As well as the ink that covered them, as she discovered last night.
"Ya lovely folks be havin' alcohol up in 'ere?!" he gleefully said, "Well halle-fuckin'-lujah!"
Taking in her brief nod, he let out a piercing whoop of joy and crossed the room in a few long strides. The space small, he was forced to brush his chest along her back as he shoved between her and the table. She held her breath at the unexpectedly warm contact while he whipped open the door of the larder so hard it creaked on its hinges. "Well, fuck me backwards!" he cheerfully cursed, foraging for a bottle of whiskey and gin. He also pulled out a side of pork, some bread, a block of cheese, a handful of dried apples and a stick of butter. "Sandwich?" he exaggeratedly waved to his supplies.
Nodding, she distantly watched as he prepared two of them. Dropping hers on a wooden plate he'd found on top of the larder, he retreated to the kitchen table. Though not before grabbing a lamp and a few candle holders from around the room and lighting them from the flames of the stove. Sitting across the table from each other, they ate in unexpectedly comfortable silence for a bit.
"Drink?" Hickey suddenly said around a mouthful of food.
His voice causing her to jump and startle out of her thoughts, she stared at him for a hard moment. Finally shrugging in acquiescence, Connor let out a huff of agreement. They were safe and secure, in familiar territory and he hadn't ambushed her yet. Why not? "No cups or tankards?" she tentatively asked.
"Nah," Hickey smirked, "And quit bein' so full 'o it. I ain't judgin' if ya take it straight from the bottle. Hell," his hazel eyes mischievously sparkled in the dim light, "Might even make me respect ya uptight disposition a tick more, sweetheart…gin 'o whiskey?"
"The latter," she swiftly said. She'd tried gin but once, at Dobby's urging in a tavern New York. It left her throat dry and aching, in an unpleasantly harsh sort of way.
Hickey guffawed, shoving the glass bottle over to her side of the table. Glancing at him for a moment, she picked it up and took a long draught. While she sputtered for a bit, it went down relatively smooth. "Come now, poppet, don't go drinkin' the whole flippin' thing!" he winked, snatching it away from her and taking another pull.
"You are saying that I cannot?" she retorted with such blatant rebuke that she surprised herself. She chose to blame it on the liquid courage newly flowing her veins, though logically, she was completely sober for now. Likely, it was more the result of the lethargic ball of comfort skimming along her skin in tingling relief. A fresh bath, shelter, plenty of food at her disposal; for the first time in weeks, she felt utterly at ease. That it was with only a decadent Templar for company didn't bother her much. Their alliance so far remained remarkably beneficial.
To reassure herself of her instincts, she allowed her vision to slip to its eerie talent for tracking truths and lies. The world slid to grey, save Hickey who appeared…a faint violet? Neither red nor blue. In fact, the color flickered slightly closer to the latter on the spectrum.
"Ya ain't addled in the head, is ya?" he snapped his fingers in front of her pale face as she caught her breath. "Fuck!" he suddenly lurched back, "Why ya bloody eyes be lookin' all weird 'n golden-like out 'o the blue?"
Rapidly blinking at her realization, she closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Opening them, she hastily allowed her sight to swing back to normal. "It must be a trick of the light," she lied with a subtle shake of her head, "And the liquor hit me quickly."
"So eat ya damn sandwich already," shrugged, "As I sure in the hell ain't gonna go cleanin' up ya drunken puke."
"That much we can agree on," she snorted, leaning in and stretching over the table to easily unhand the bottle from him. Taking another long drink, her gaze narrowed in challenge. "Try to at least keep up, Hickey," she shoved it back over to his side.
Eyes widening at her boldness, he was about to go chiding her on how little girls shouldn't go playing grown-man games. At the same time, it dawned on him that in spite of her youth, she was no child. Far from it, in fact. What, with her murdering, meticulous planning and foolish, if lofty goals, she could handle herself just fine. So arching an impish brow, he crooned, "Wot's this 'en? Do 'Lil Miss 'Stick Up 'Er Arse' be darin' me to a game 'o cups?"
"You are lucky I have not removed the proverbial stick in order to beat you about the head with it," she shrugged, causing him to let out a bellow of wicked laughter. "And what do you mean by 'cups?'" she asked.
"Nothin' fancy," he seemed to magically produce a deck of playing cards from somewhere on his person. Expertly shuffling them with a nimble flurry of his hands, he said, "Just what I like to call a simple drinkin' game," he waggled his brows.
"Ah, I am aware of such," her eyes lit up with recognition. "Those of my village usually partake during various festivals and important rites. The last occurred during what you colonists consider the summer equinox. Le jeu de la crosse, the French have taken to calling our game, for it is too complicated to say in my language," she hummed. "It is played upon a great field between warriors over a few days. All in order to give thanks to the Creator. Bets are placed on the victors, either with items or via fermented drinks in order to give honor."
"Yeah, well, this ain't so grand," Hickey smoothly replied. Cutting the deck of cards a few times, he set it down between them. "Just a harmless game 'o Pharaoh for us to get up to," he shrugged, "Ya know what that be?"
"I am thoroughly unfamiliar with such," Connor's mouth twisted in confusion as she drummed her fingers along the table. "No doubt, you cheat at it, yes?"
Hickey snickered. "Of course I do! Now," he swiped out the cards into a fan pattern on the table between them, "Ladies first. Highest card picked gets first turn. Ace be the top, as per usual."
Furrowing her eyebrows in concentration, Connor carefully took a card from the middle. With a fleeting grin, she flipped it over to reveal a ten of hearts. "It seems fortune resides with me."
"Beginner's luck, eh?" Thomas drawled. Swiftly snatching a card from all the way to the right, he slapped it on the table. "Well 'en, would ya look at that?" he shot her a sneaky grin, "A king of spades for me!"
Eyes widening in disbelief, Connor implored, "How did you-?!"
"No worries, I can go bein' a gentlemen, if I be so inclined," he retorted with an amusingly dramatic sigh. "So since ya be all green at this, ya can go first anyways." About to rebuke him, Connor paused as he added, "Lemme teach ya some 'o me tricks, darlin'. Then, after a few practice rounds, whoever be losin'? Well, he 'o she needs to swig a drink," he pointed at the bottles with a flourish of his hands.
Hesitating, Connor mulled over his offer. But looking up and seeing the taunting confrontation etched along his expression, she utterly refused to retreat. "Fine," she held out an unwavering hand, which Hickey eagerly shook with a roguish smile, "I agree to the terms."
Now, the game was afoot.
Lord almighty, he was three sheets to the wind. Hell, six to nine sheets considering how his vision swam. The best part of it, though? His drinking mate was all sorts of fucked up too. Well, he'd at least like think so, seeing how she actually fucking giggled as she finished off the third bottle of whiskey between them.
She'd lost far more games of Pharaoh than he did, of course. Granted, he'd taught her a few of his cheats. Still, he wasn't a total moron and hadn't shown her nearly of half of everything he knew of his usual deceptions. Regardless, she picked up on most of his sleight of hands with relative ease. Yet it didn't save her from the bottle. He had to give her credit, for she never refused to honor her end of the bets. Which explained why her head currently rested on the table. Her cheek was likely imprinted with its ridges from sitting there for so long. The bloody apocalypse must have rolled in at some point, for she was freakin' laughing into her hand.
It sounded bizarrely charming, her looney little chortle as he recalled hauling ass through the stinking, squalid streets of London. His pockets weighed down with the pounds he'd won in a gambling hall made it all the more treacherous. Having around thirteen years to him but big for his age, no one realized they'd been swindled by a mere kid. At least not until he started drunkenly railing on and on about all the fine French wine and Swiss chocolates he'd get to go buying for his brothers and sisters. The god-damned, complimentary, fancy little glasses of scotch they kept bringing to his card table had done him in.
Duke Dumbass Who Was Too Much of a Fucktard to Realize He Was Getting Fleeced by a Cheeky Tyke for the Last Couple of Hours or So naturally didn't keen too kindly to that. His calling the guard sent Hickey leaping over the railing from the second floor. Crash landing to the slick, rain-soaked cobblestones below, he nearly broke his ankle. Stumbling to his feet, he took off back to his usual stomping grounds in Whitechapel, over in the East End. Easily losing the soldiers on his ass, he and his family had the best Christmas and New Year's in well, ever.
"And that's when I got to learnin' the true power 'o havin' a nice bit 'o coin linin' me pockets," Thomas shrugged, sloppily dealing the cards again.
Connor suddenly frowned at that. Slipping along her seat and struggling to sit up, she swayed as she finally managed it. He couldn't quite tell if she shook her head in disagreement as she slumped back in her chair to stare at the ceiling. Judging by her silence as he looked down to cut the cards, she was back to her usual judgmental self. If he were sober, he would've reeled off some slur about her misplaced faith in humanity versus the surety of having resources within reach. Whatever, he'd always been a cheerful, jovially randy sort of drunk.
Speaking of getting all frisky, why in the fuck-all did she have to be so damned comely?
He hoped to God that she didn't realize how finely spun her chemise was, for her smallclothes were clearly visible beneath it. It'd certainly afforded him a shadowed view of her tits all night. Not to mention, the soft contours of the rest of her beneath it. Not bothering to braid her hair back, it remained loose and streaming down her shoulders, save the beaded piece along her left ear. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove and liquor as well. Combined with the flickering, orange light from the lamp and candles along the table, her freckles stood out in fetching contrast to her bronzed skin.
"You are," she sluggishly began, "Fortunate that I am far too…inebriated to lecture you…unfortunately." Fingers scrambling for purchase against the table, she grasped the bottle of spirits after a bit. For she'd lost the latest round of Pharaoh.
Her lips parting as she took a languorous swig of whisky, Thomas' gaze heatedly traced along the supple line of her throat. Especially as her tongue darted out to lick away a few remaining drops of the amber liquid. His groin tightened at how her heavy-eyed gaze never left his as she did so. Dark eyes fiery and bright, her mouth curled into feline grin. Which only deepened as she slid the bottle back to his side of the table.
She couldn't be purposely fuckin' with him, could she?
Could she?
"And with that," she waved with a flowing hand, her relaxed murmur yanking him out of his lascivious thoughts, "I fear that I must…retire for the evening." Thankfully, her expression abruptly slipped back to her usual one of distant appraisal. Yep, there was no possible way she was deliberately toying with him. Not in the slightest. It was all a just the result of his intoxicated, increasingly heady hallucinations.
"So ya givin' up?" he taunted, "Just like that?"
"Per…haps-"
"It either be a yes…'o…no," he slurred.
"You," she retorted, lazily pointing at him, "You will not…remember if I did come morning, no matter. So, uh…yes," she threw up a hand of surrender, "I do not seem to be victorious tonight. Fancy…that."
Holy shit, did she actual reel off one of his sayings?
"A pity sweetheart," he swayed in his chair, hearing the legs of it creak as he leaned back on two of them, "I was always rootin' for ya."
"Lying does not become you," she smirked, "Or rather, I expect no less of you…yes, that sounds fairly more accurate."
"Now, why ya always gotta go thinkin' so 'lil 'o me, dearie?" he crookedly smiled, expression full of lusty promise. "Like I be sayin' 'afore," he winked, "I got all sorts 'o talents that'll go makin' ya toes curl somethin' fierce. Only if ya go 'n gimme a chance at ya…of course."
"Hmm?" she slowly arched a brow of question. That she didn't backhand him across the face or stomp away in a huff at his intent was right miraculous. Instead, she settled for asking, "Is that so?"
Hand slapping out, his fingers twitched along the table before they settled on the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Knocking back the last of it, he messily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He lifted bleary eyes at hearing her chair scrape along the floorboards, only to be met by her inexplicably standing right in front of him. Snickering and waving the bottle right under her nose, he taunted, "Maybe…maybe there be a lot more to me than meets ya eye, eh-?"
Without warning, her mouth sloppily captured his, fervent and determined.
Not since he'd been a callow youth, years ago and back in England, had he found himself so absolutely frozen at such a gesture. Frankly, it took every fiber of his being not to grab her pert behind, haul her down into his lap and let his hands start their heated exploration. After all, he always finished what he started.
'Cept ya didn't start nothin', his mind distantly reeled. Drunk…she be drunk as shit…can't conceivably be knowin' what in the fuck she be gettin' goin'…
The silky feel of his hand tangled in her dark tresses while he shoved his other one all up under her chemise. The sight of her writhing beneath him as he took her right there on the table, sending his cards flying all over the damned place. The sound of his name falling from that delicious mouth. Her heels digging into his behind as her fingernails scraped down his back. The taste of her skin as he ran his eager tongue along every inch of her. The images of it all tilted and whirled in his thoughts. Unfortunately, it caused him to let out a ravenous groan of appreciation. But bloody hell, instead of sending her off, she only deepened the kiss. While her lack of experience was obvious, her enthusiasm more than made up for it. Her tongue sliding against his, he tasted whisky and fresh mint.
His strained to keep his arms pinned to his sides. Praying that she didn't notice his shaking hands, he took her by the wrists and lightly pushed her away. "Nope, love," he whispered, eyes half-lidded and watching in carnal fascination as she ran the tip of her tongue along her lips. Good lord, did she even realize how hard that careless little gesture was making him? Probably not. "That a-ways lays disaster," his breath hitched, chest heaving with effort to keep his distance.
"In spite of the fact that you...kissed me first?" she scoffed, eyes snapping open, "Back in the…alley?" Her pupils blown, her lips were slightly swollen.
"A distraction," he slowly retorted.
"I care not for…a supposed catastrophe," she sniffed.
His mouth going dry at the sight of her dark tipped breasts outlined through the thin fabric of her shift, he swallowed for a quick moment before he drawled, "Oh, you'll go carin' come mornin'." Yanking his hands from her as through she burned to the touch, he let out a labored chuckle, adding, "'Sides, I ain't lookin' to be no one's hazy mistake." So what if it was a bald-faced lie? She surely didn't need to know that. Or how much he appreciated keeping his balls intact. For as easily he could handle a crazed woman come morning, he had little desire to deal with an armed one.
Straightening, she swayed to her feet. Yet her knees still touched his as she clasped her hands in front of her. "So I was a mistake back in the alley outside the tavern?" she carefully inquired, twitching a brow.
"What?!" he snorted, "Why would ya go thinkin'…it be just a ways to…No," he finally settled on, "No, ya weren't-"
"Then…what has changed?"
I don't fuckin' know me self, 'lil wolf, he wanted to say aloud, 'Cause I'd have me mouth all up on ya right now if ya was another other. Instead, he slurred, "Nothin'. Ya be plenty tired, Connor," he scraped his chair back away from her. "Have a good night, yeah?"
Slitting her eyes at him, she pressed her mouth into a thin line. Then, without further ado, she spun on her heel and all but fled towards the bedroom.
Author's Notes:
Pharaoh – A French card game originally called "Faro" that originated in the late 17th century. By the 18th century, it was extremely popular in England. While it's not a direct ancestor of Poker, it has similarities.
"…his usual stomping grounds in Whitechapel, over in the East End." – Thomas Hickey has an obvious Cockney accent despite being born in Ireland. So at some point, it can be surmised that he and/or his family moved to London and settled somewhere in the East End in order for him to retain such a strong accent.
Traditionally, those with his accent are generally of an area of London within the earshot of "Bow's Bells." Bows Bells refers to the church bells of St Mary-le-Bow, located on Cheapside Street in the East End. Meanwhile, Whitechapel is considered a core district of the East End, which is one of the areas from where people who speak with a Cockney accent come from. So all East Enders are Cockneys, but not all Cockneys are East Enders. As a result, my fanon is that Hickey spent most of his childhood in Whitechapel, which explains is accent.
Le jeu de la crosse – This phrase is believed to be from where the word "Lacrosse" came from. It roughly translates to the French term for field hockey. The Mohawk and other tribes in the area and in Canada played lacrosse, though a different version from the modern game. If you look closely in Connor's bedroom at the homestead in-game, he actually has a lacrosse stick leaning up against a cabinet of drawers.