He really shouldn't have been so flabbergasted to wake up to the cold space of the bed beside him. Or the empty silence that permeated the house. But what was even more disconcerting was the barest twinge of his stomach at finding her gone. And he wasn't quite sure if could blame all of it on his head-splitting hangover.
Cursing, Thomas blearily stumbled into the kitchen and promptly threw up into the wash basin. Sure, he was able to hold his liquor last night. A feat in and of itself, considering how distracting the little assassin turned out to be. But his shenanigans caught up with him this morning. Likely caught up with her as well. She couldn't have wandered off that far. At least that's only what he could assume at ambling outside to find her grey mare gone from the stables. Judging by how the rest of the cabin was utterly devoid of any trace of her, she wasn't coming back either. At least she hadn't stolen any of his crap. Hell, she even had the fire nice and banked in the stove, leaving the cabin pleasantly warm.
It still didn't make him any less pissed off.
"Who the fuck do ya think ya be, Connor?" he muttered to himself.
Ain't like she owes you shit, his mind raced. She hadn't killed him in his sleep. Or ransacked his belongings. Nor had she made off with all the food and supplies, considering how full the larder remained. It wasn't exactly like he stuck around to make deep and meaningful conversation after bedding one of his lovely tarts either. So really, he shouldn't have given a flying fuck.
"Jesus bloody Christ," he snorted to the empty air as he wolfed down a quick breakfast. Well, he had only one option at this point.
Hopefully, hunting her down wouldn't prove too difficult.
Sure, she only had a five to six hour lead on Hickey. But she was a fast rider and thoroughly familiar with the wilderness. No matter that her thighs ached with each impact at the steady canter of her mare as she determinedly rode for Boston. Besides, the mission proved far more important than second guessing herself.
She certainly didn't do so when she woke up with the sunrise to find him curled around her in a tight embrace. Nor when she slowly slid out of bed and headed to the kitchen to start breakfast, only to frantically gather up her things and flee from the cabin. No matter the handful of times she had to stop and throw up the final remnants of the alcohol in her system. Or to give her sore legs a bit of relief from last night's happenings. Her head pounding, her stomach rolled while beads of sweat broke out along her face. Regardless, she forced herself to keep pace. The clip-clop of her mare's hooves on the hard-packed, frozen dirt of the road helped drown out her thoughts. Though not quite enough for her taste.
Warm hands sliding along skin, eager in their explorations. The taste, the feel of taunt, inked muscle moving beneath calloused fingertips. Lips trailing downwards, nipping, lapping like a starving sort of thing. Hitched sighs, the trembling ache, the sated release. Murmured laughter, a tangle of sweaty limbs, slowed breaths, sleepy contentment.
Strange, there was no feeling of loss over what she'd given up last night, this being her first time and all. It anything, she felt utterly reckless. A bizarre sort of unhinging that made her mind wander. Furiously blushing at the glimpses of last night flashing in her head, she could make neither heads of tails of what in the name of the gods possessed her to allow him to take such liberties.
Cursing to herself, Connor ducked her head against the elements and spurred her mount forward. She took what she needed from him in tracking down the Hessian, so his usefulness was at an end. All that mattered now was arriving to Boston in one piece to warn William Saint-Prix of the threat against his life at the hands of the monstrous Hessian. These childish contemplations had no bearing on her duties at hand. In fact, if she wasn't careful, such distractions could easily spell disaster.
Tailing William De Saint-Prix wasn't particularly difficult. Then again, his talents were always put to better use hiding in plain sight, as Connor promptly learned within her first few weeks of knowing him. For unlike most of the Brotherhood's other recruits, William sought her out directly. Or rather, he sought out Achilles four years ago, right around his 17th birthday.
William's letter of introduction from his family arrived a month before he set foot in the colonies. It certainly seemed to sway her mentor into a less cynical disposition, for once.
"This was delivered to me today," Achilles declared one late afternoon at the Homestead. Without further ado, he placed a medium-sized, carved, dark wooden box with a gold lock along its front on the dining room table between them. At the noise, Connor paused in shucking a large bowl of peas for their supper. Gingerly opening the box revealed an interior lined with plush, scarlet velvet. Embossed on the inner lid in gold leaf was a shield of arms. Written beneath it in florid script were the hyphenated words, "Saint-Prix."
Seeing that Achilles didn't rap her knuckles with his cane for taking liberties, Connor dragged her fingertips along the fabric. "This is quite…lavish," she said with astonishment.
"I'm not surprised," Achilles shrugged, "An old line of assassins from France, this William comes from." The old man promptly ordered her to read the first letter on top a pile of folded papers within it. "They're a noble and well-connected family," he nodded before settling down into the chair next to her. Placing his cane within easy reach, he continued shucking the peas at her side. "In fact," he added, "His great grandsire from a few generations back translated the Auditore Codex into French. From there, it made its way to the other Assassin bureaus across the continent. Then, eventually to the New World."
"I see," Connor furrowed a brow. She'd studied Achilles' copy of the treasured codex from cover to cover. Utterly fascinating and highly detailed with a plethora of sketches some attributed to Leonardo da Vinci himself, the Auditore Codex quickly turned into one of her favorite references. Mostly on account of its collaborator, one Sofia Auditore. Even despite being written years after the various events occurred, her vivid retelling of her husband's life proved invaluable. Overall, it was second only to the Ibn-La'Ahad codex of the now extinct Levantine branch of the Brotherhood.
"But do not the Assassins frown upon wealth?" she questioned while re-reading the Saint-Prix missive.
Achilles let out a surprisingly genuine laugh despite shaking his head in disagreement. "We've never rejected use of the resources that money may buy. You've read multiple times of Il Mentore and the funds at his disposal back during the Renaissance era? Not to mention tireless dedication of his sister, Claudia?"
Connor took in his words for a moment before carefully replying, "It was she who managed his estates and ensured the Brotherhood never wanted for funds."
"And that was before her brother officially inducted her into the Brotherhood. Yet her work was just as vital to its existence as his, yes?"
"Without doubt."
"Being born into one of Florence's oldest families also gained them access to the highest reaches of government. Kings, dukes, popes, those ruling clans of the city states of Italia," Achilles continued with a hint of admiration. "At one point, the Auditore and their allies brokered a level of influence the likes of which have yet to be duplicated elsewhere."
"And one must be born into wealth and status to create such?" Connor asked with disbelief.
"Not at all, girl, you know that," Achilles chided. "But you cannot deny it can be a tool put to excellent use. Or have all of those lessons that I've pounded into that thick skull of yours already fallen out?"
"Hardly," she retorted.
"In the meantime," Achilles prodded her leg with the end of his cane, "William is scheduled to arrive within a fortnight. His ship, the Talon de l'Aigle, will dock at Boston Harbor."
"Talon…de…l'Aigle?" Connor butchered the French.
"The Eagle's Talon," Achilles smoothly translated. "When the time arrives, go, meet him there and help him settle into Boston."
"I do not understand," she replied, folding the letter and stuffing it back into the envelope before dropping it into the box, "Surely he may secure himself?"
"The boy comes from wealth," Achilles smirked, "So I doubt he will settle for lodging in some rat and flee infested boarding house. He'll likely purchase some prime piece of property in an affluent part of the city, set up a fine home that will be the talk of his neighbors and then wish to get a lay of the land. As any experienced Assassin is want to do, eh?"
"Understandable," Connor nodded.
"So you'll be needing to show him around. As well as introduce him to those other ones you've brought into the Brotherhood," he prodded her leg with his cane again. "And since I'm far too old to be ambling about, you're to be his guide."
Connor frowned at that, her hands coming to rest on the box's lid. "How long am I to undertake this?"
"For as long as he requires you," Achilles swiftly retorted.
"But my lessons here-"
"May be put on hold for a bit," Achilles rebuked. Leaning forward, he began drumming his fingers along the tabletop next to her arm. "Frankly, I think that you would appreciate a change of scene. And teacher."
"I…you…" she slowly began, glancing away from him, "You have always undertaken my education."
"Things change all the time, as you are aware. Such is life," he insisted, going back to the peas, "Especially for one of our kind."
"What have I done," she swallowed, dropping her gaze to listlessly stare at the table, "To deserve such…punishment?"
"Punishment?" Achilles balked. Letting out a rasping laugh, he stopped his work to look over at his ward. However, her sobering expression immediately caused his look to shift to one of surprise. Especially as she stopped her quivering lip with the hard set of her jaw. "Oh, Connor," he let out a deep sigh and ran a quick hand over his face, "I would never do something so cruel as send you away. You should know that by now-"
"And yet you are so eager to be rid of me," she grit, gripping the edges of the box so hard, she scraped the grain of the wood against her fingertips.
Gently pulling the box away from her, Achilles murmured, "How many years have you to you now?"
Expression peaked, she hissed, "My 16th has just passed."
"So you are a woman full-grown, yes?" Achilles lightly declared. "Some would even say such was true two years ago. Many women at your stage in life have married and have at least a child. Not that I expect that of you." She gave a strained shrug, which he took it as a sign to continue. "It would do well for you to broaden your horizons in other ways, girl."
After a long, tense moment of silence, Connor jerked her head in his direction. Frankly, whether or not it was a nod of agreement, Achilles didn't quite know. But the proverbial bird had to learn how to fly on its own at some point.
Reaching out to pat her on the back, he came up short at seeing her freeze. Fists clenched, her cheeks were beginning to blaze pink. "You will not see it now, but this is for the best." When she only replied with a restrained groan, Achilles summarily said, "It is settled then; I'll write a letter for you to deliver to Mousier Saint-Prix upon his arrival that shall include further instructions concerning you."
"So it seems," she groused. Snatching back the bowl of peas from him, she continued her work. Often, so hard that she ripped the majority of the string beans clean in half. Shooting her a resigned expression, Achilles made his way back to his feet. At least he could retreat back into the kitchen to finish preparing their supper.
Wrangling William required Connor to remain in Boston for nearly a year. Admittedly, in getting him acquainted with the colonies' busiest city, Connor's knowledge of the Brotherhood's current methods in Europe increased ten-fold. Especially of how various techniques could easily be applied on this side of world.
Achilles was proven correct yet again; William's cultured upbringing absolutely prevented him from settling for anything less than the best. The first thing the young noble did was purchase a home in Beacon Hill. The wealthiest neighborhood in the city, he charmed his neighbors within the matter of a few weeks. Throwing various parties at his home gained their trust. Which then quickly turned into a seemingly endless stream of invitations to nearly every social event of the season. Soon, he had access to all sorts of influential sorts. In turn, it allowed him to carry out the work of the Brotherhood within the highest echelons of society. So for the first time in decades, the Assassins were on the road to matching Templar influence.
It also didn't hurt that he insisted on Connor remaining as a guest in his home. While in the presence of company, she posed as servant. Not only to remain anonymous, but also to eavesdrop on their Templar targets. While Connor would never admit it out loud, there was something to be said for sleeping in a clean bed and dining on fresh food bought daily. All without having to pay a dime, no matter her insistence to the contrary.
"Non, absolument pas, ma chérie," he indulgently grinned in his native tongue. While her accent needed far more refinement and she struggled with writing French, she understood him perfectly well. All on account of his continued lessons with her. "A sister so singularly dedicated to our fight against the Templars shall spend no coin on account of me."
Preventing his murder at the hands of the Hessian was the absolute least she could do.
"Ya seem distracted, lass," Dobby teased, bringing Connor's thoughts back to the present. The biting cold of mid-November didn't faze either woman from their elevated vantage point on the roof. No matter the light swirling snow of late morning. Or the dreary grey skies above. Frankly, it was nothing compared to what Connor faced on the road back to Boston. Taking nearly five days rather than the usual three, she was plagued by terrible weather as soon as she left the cabin. The heavy snow let up after two days only to turn into sleet. Her only luck seemed to be that the Hessian was similarly delayed. Now, it wouldn't be too late for William.
Rubbing her gloved hands together, Connor chewed her lower lip for a moment before steadily asking, "How so?"
"I don't know," Dobby shrugged with a languid lift of her shoulders. "Just a bit…quieter? If that's possible," she chuckled.
"You sound taken aback," Connor replied. Hastily standing up from her crouched position near the roof's lip, she pulled her black hood closer about her ears. Since her robes were filthy from her travels, she stopped into the general store at the southern gate. Leaving them to be cleaned, she changed into a set of dyed robes that'd finally come in per an earlier order from roughly a month ago. Hence the Baltimore Black ones she currently wore.
"Just observant," Dobby reassured. Dark hair pulled back beneath the brown hood of her frock coat, she dressed in her usual mishmash of new and worn clothes. Similar to Connor, she favored the efficiency of male livery. Yet her ample bosom was on full display, as per usual. It didn't matter, not with how fiercely she wielded her sword and flintlock. Leaning against the chimney of the blacksmith's in the North End neighborhood they were staking out, she gave her friend a once over before returning her gaze back to the street to keep an eye on their mark. Crossing her arms, she casually asked, "Everything alright? Ever since you came back from the wilderness, ya seem to be all lost in ya thoughts."
"This has become a far different sort of mission than what I have previously undertaken."
"That's it, eh?" Dobby arched a doubtful brow despite the amusement tinging her voice.
Rapidly blinking her eyes to readjust her special sight against the onslaught of the crowds exiting the church services across the street, Connor zeroed in on their golden target. Flexing her fingers, she quietly said, "The life of our brother is in danger."
"Aye. And 'tis mightily important we don't go 'en botch this up," Dobby nodded, expression sliding to serious for a moment. "Not that we've ever screwed up too much before." Reaching out, she carefully dropped a hand to Connor's tensed upper arm, "So calm ya nerves, yeah?" Connor didn't shrug off her touch, letting Dobby withdraw in her own time. Yet her expression remained stony. "Ya sure ya don't want me takin' point on this?" Dobby leaned in and quietly asked. Connor toyed with the idea for a few seconds before shaking her head in disagreement. Sliding her a look out of the corner her eye, Dobby settled for cracking her gloved hands and stretching her arms above her head for a bit. "Alrighty then," she lightly laughed, "The offer stands though."
"I am grateful for it," Connor let out a deep sigh.
"He's on the move, 'en," Dobby jerked her head in the direction of their tail. "I'll take the roofs?"
"That will do well," Connor replied, "And I thank you for taking Duncan's place on this."
"Not a problem, the man needs a break. Especially since Clipper came back from Trenton slightly worse for wear," Dobby waved off. "I'll be yer eyes in the sky." With that, she gave Connor a quick salute before speeding off and taking an effortless, flying leap across to the next rooftop. At the same time, Connor scrambled down the side of the building to street level. After all, completing the tasks of the Brotherhood always took precedence over all else. Even one's own personal discord.
From his viewpoint causally leaning against the column the general store across the street from the church, Thomas didn't recognize Connor initially. Rather, he intently focused on picking out this William Saint-Prix character. Considering he was the next target of the Hessian, it would be easier to track down the murderous kraut this way.
This time, he didn't utilize his usual Templar informants to find Saint-Prix. Instead, he relied on his personal network of low-level fiends, the ones who had no idea he worked for the Order. He always kept a few at hand and outside of Haytham's sniffing around. If only to never put all his eggs in one basket. Lord knew when one would have to disappear or find himself on the wrong side of his current employers. Not to mention, languishing in jail for three weeks certainly made him question just how important old Kenway considered him.
While none of them knew exactly where Saint-Prix lived, they all agreed that he preferred the company of the city's elite. Since it was Sunday morning, he probably attended church services, like most everyone else. On the affluent side of town, no doubt. Considering he'd arrived in Boston around four years ago, he'd likely have to be Protestant in order to welcomed into the social milieu with such open arms. Going with his instincts, Thomas turned out to be right.
Gaze locked on Saint-Prix, Thomas missed the bob of Connor's black hood as she slid her way through the crowd exiting the church. Tossing away the straws of hay he chewed on, he nearly ran into her heels. Of course, she would be here. Their endgames were in alignment, after all. Thinking quickly, he ducked into an alleyway just to her right as she paused and turned in his direction at what he could only assume was sensing his presence. Counting to ten, he stepped out from his hiding place to follow.
His utter shock at seeing Connor's faint grin when Saint-Prix gave her a deep bow and brushed his lips across the tips of her fingers caused him to nearly crash into a troop of Patriots hanging about along the sidewalk. Thankfully, he swiftly recovered with only their glare of annoyance at his proximity. However, he almost lost the other two to the crowd. Remaining a solid length behind the pair without discovery was a challenge. Luckily, the Sunday bustle helped conceal him.
His expression remained stunned as he watched the two nonchalantly traverse the boulevard. Not once did Connor shove the fop away or purposely keep her usual distance. If anything, she fell into easy step with him before dropping a hand to his forearm.
It was evident Saint-Prix was a moneyed one. His dusky, black long coat bore a black hood. Both were lined with scarlet silk, which matched the trim of his black tricorne. Beneath it, he wore a black waistcoat edged in white lace and clasped with gold buttons. The ruffles of his shirt were lace as well. His spotless white breeches spun of heavy white cotton, they were tucked into his shiny, black dragoon boots.
Thomas was able to get a better look at the bastard's face when turned and dropped a handful of gold coins into the hands of the street urchins who appeared in front the pair. Save his tanned skin, he bore a patrician look. High cheekbones, full lips, a sharp nose and bright, brown eyes. A delicately trimmed black goatee completed the appearance of a dandy. His easy smile and brief chat with the urchins softened his visage. Especially when he sent them off with a leisurely wave.
Swallowing down the flare of alarm at how casually Connor allowed the smarmy tosser to steer her into a tavern after a while, Thomas let out a snort of irritation. Waiting for a bit, he slipped into it as well, using a handful of customers as cover. Taking a seat in the darkened corner, he ordered a pint of ale. The Assassin and her apparent mark were huddled in deep conversation. Taking table nearest to the back door, they could be gone in a matter of seconds. Not that he blamed them.
Huddling down at Connor's gaze sweeping the dining area for what seemed the millionth time, Thomas waved off the middle-aged tavern owner's wife for a refill and continued nursing his drink.
The two talked for some time. While the rich one conversed in an animated fashion, waving his hands about and bobbing his head, Connor remained her usual subdued self. Facing partially in her direction, Thomas could only make out the measured shift of her shoulders, the relaxed line of her back and the way she flexed her feet along the chair legs. Every so often, she pulled her hood closer about her head and slightly leaned forward. To anyone else, nothing looked amiss. But soon, he could make out how she drummed her fingers along the table in increasing staccato. Or the way her foot thumped along the floor planks in faster rhythm. She even heaved a sigh a few times, her spine snapping tense before relaxing again.
After about an hour or so, Connor gracefully got up from the table. She made no gesture of goodbye but still disappeared out the back door. Coolly moving to his feet, Thomas followed while making sure not to be spotted by her apparent partner.
"I expect more of your skills when it comes to following someone," she sniffed as soon as he exited the rear of the tavern. Leaning up against the brick wall of the establishment with one foot propped on it, her arms were crossed. Inspecting her nails for a moment, her hard gaze flicked up to meet his. "I realized you were at our back but a few minutes after I caught up with William."
"Maybe I be wantin' to draw your attention, sweetheart," he snapped.
"Whatever you may say to convince yourself," she sneered.
Barking out a mirthless chuckle, Thomas propped himself up against the wall opposite her and in an identical fashion. Thumbing back his tricorne bought him time enough to give her an obvious once over. Save the slight downward twitch of her lip, she didn't react to his leering. Not even her usual blush at his gaze colored her cheeks. "So I'm guessin' ya always be this bloody difficult after a good dicking?"
"A good what?" her expression slid to genuinely curious.
Oh, she had to be fucking pulling his chain, right? "Holy fucking hell!" he threw his hands up in disbelief, "Do ya really not be understadin'? How can ya not get...seriously?!"
Her frown deepened as she replied, "Uh, I do not quite comprehend what you mean."
Rolling his eyes, he shrugged and drawled, "All I be sayin' is that ya got a hunger in ya girl. Somethin' fierce 'n panting that I wasn't expecting when we, well, when we went 'n did our thing, ya know?" Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, he smirked, "Back at the cabin?"
Steeling her voice to flat, she squared her shoulders and replied, "Speak clearly, Hickey."
His gaze darkened, purposefully sweeping over her again in a way that made her hate how her stomach curled and tightened with sudden heat. The accompanying crackle tingling along her skin didn't help matters either. "I think you know what I be speakin' 'bout," he slowly grinned, "After all, ya ain't never been the daft sort, love-"
"I assume that you mean when we fucked?"
What the hell had gotten into her?! She certainly had no idea what prompted her to use such words usually reserved for his ilk. Not to mention how satisfying it felt to say it out loud, as though a heavy weight was suddenly lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps it also had something to do with the lick of satisfaction coursing through her at how his eyebrows seemed to shoot up to his hairline at her retort.
Unfortunately, she also felt her cheeks sear scarlet as soon as the last word left her lips. Swallowing even as she pulled herself straighter up against the wall, she added, "That was what you meant to say, yes? Or perhaps I am mistaken?"
"You sure in the hell looked surprised to see me back 'ere in Boston, darlin'," Hickey abruptly changed the subject. His brittle smile accompanying his heated gaze only heightened her irritation.
She should've known getting rid of him wouldn't prove so easy. "Hardly," Connor brusquely retorted. "I have never underestimated your propensity for appearing in places where you obviously do not belong."
"Like all up in ya?"
"Mr. Hickey…" she clenched one of her hands in warning.
"Ah, she calls me 'Mister,'" he snickered while absentmindedly scratching behind his ear. "Now I be upgraded to fancy titles 'n such? So lemme ask ya this, lass," he leaned in, nearly nose to nose with her, "What do a bloke be havin' to do between them comely legs 'o yours to get back on a first name basis, eh?"
Admittedly, he braced for her slap across the face. But the sheer force of it sent his head snapping back with a painful jolt. Thank God for his thick skull and vast experience in taking a blow. It allowed him to recover quick enough to hear her viciously reel off something that sounded awful peeved in her native tongue. Not that he gave a flying fuck.
Cracking his neck from side to side and slowly rubbing his smarting chin, his smirk deepened. "That, love," he deliberately said, eyes now flashing with savage fury, "Was untoward."
"I should not let my temper get the best of me," she grit, chest heaving with barely controlled restraint.
"So don't be fuckin' apologizing if ya don't fuckin' mean a bloody word 'o it!" Thomas mocked.
"Pardon me for your notion that I was doing anything of the sort."
"What in the fuck-?!"
Squaring her shoulders, Connor swiftly pushed herself up off the wall. "I have nothing else to relay. Good day-"
"Not so fast, poppet," he growled. Reaching to snatch her by the upper arm, he came up short at the sight of her left bracer blade sharply flashing in the pale light of the early afternoon.
"Consider your next actions, Hickey!"
"You do the bloody same, Connor!" he barked.
Eyes darting to his right hand, she immediately made out the glint of his dirk. Rocking back on her heel, she readjusted her balance to defensive. It was subtle, but he had years of experience on her, as well as recently witnessing her in the field. "We appear to be an impasse."
"Speak for yerself," he drawled, tone sliding to nonchalant despite how smoothly he palmed his weapon. "I just be defendin' me self from some balmy chit who drew on me first. What, with ya assaultin' me and now looking to gut me for no goddamned reason!"
His icy emphasis on his last words caused her to visibly flinch. Yet she refused to tear her gaze away from his.
"And just who is this piece 'o work, Connor?" a woman's lilting brogue called out just to Thomas' left. That it was accompanied by the soft click of a flintlock hammer being pulled didn't escape his notice either.
"No one," Connor swallowed. Relaxing slightly, she sheathed her bracer blade. Dark eyes following his motions as he intentionally did the same with his weapon, she slowly repeated, "No one at all, Dobby."
Well would you fuckin' look at that horseshit-
"He sure in the hell don't be lookin' like no one, darlin'," Dobby retorted, now at Connor's side.
Thomas' eyes swept to this 'Dobby.' Yet another Assassin, judging by the similar bracer she wore around her right wrist. In her mish-mash of clothes, she appeared only a bit younger than him. Her flinty, green gaze and implacable expression gave away little beyond that. Add to that how she kept her weapon trained on him, he'd bet his arse she knew how to use it. Still…
"Yer one of the old country, 'en?" he purposely softened his accent while forcing his stance to relax. Leaning back, he gave her a playful wink.
Eyes darting to Connor, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod in spite of her openly harried expression, Dobby slightly lowered her weapon and said, "Maybe…what of it strainséir?"
Yep, she was definitely of Ireland. "Oh, just wonderin' at how lucky Connor be at knowin' another one like meself-"
"Your accent be plenty wrong to be of my kind," Dobby interrupted with a defiant jerk of her chin.
"Aye," he shrugged, steeling an easy smile to his face and throwing his hands up in surrender, "Ya got me, dearie. Mo mháthair agus a athair, me folks moved us from Waterford on the 'ole Emerald Isle to London when I be a wee lad."
"Oh yeah, then?" Dobby smirked, "How nice for ya, mo buachaill álainn." Relaxing a bit, she dropped her hand completely and flashed him a grin. "Still," she kept her finger on the trigger, "None 'o that explains why you're having clandestine conversations and whatnot 'ere in this alleyway with me Connor, yeah?"
"It is nothing," Connor huffed. If he wasn't so wound up, Thomas would've found it amusing at how Dobby clucked her tongue in disagreement, like a mother hen scolding a child. It was even more apparent in how Connor restlessly swayed from foot to foot while pouting in the other woman's direction. "I am on my way back inside."
"Good," Dobby replied, sheathing her flintlock. Moving to cover Connor's back, she glanced over her shoulder and gave Thomas a purposeful once over. "Ya sure he ain't anyone?" she chuckled, "He looks like a lout. Well, a handsome lout-"
"Why does everyone always insist on relaying that?" Connor hissed in exasperation.
"'Cause it be fuckin' true?" Thomas obstinately shouted back. Whipping her head around, Connor stared at him in annoyed disbelief. "What 'en, sweetheart?" he snorted, "Ya think I don't got ears too?"
"I-"
"Besides," he followed after her, though he made sure to keep his hands in plain sight at seeing Dobby silently flick out her hidden blade at his movements, "We had a deal, right? And last I checked, ya prided yerself on bein' a woman of your word? Unless ya forgot how to even go 'bout doin' that too?"
"What's he prattling on about?" Dobby stopped in her tracks just before they made it to rear door of the tavern.
"Oh, just makin' sure ya man in there don't go getting' killed, 'tis all," Thomas graced them with a supposedly innocent smile. "Wouldn't want yer ranks thinned out none too much, now would we, Connor?" he came to stop just outside arm's reach of both of them. Seeing the Assassin drop her head and rub the bridge of her nose in frustration, he barked out a derisive laugh. Swiftly looking between him and Connor, Dobby fixed him with a jaundiced eye before approaching. While she sheathed her hidden blade, she still remained out of his reach. Smart lass, Thomas thought to himself.
"I don't believe ya ever formally introduced yourself," she insisted.
"It really is not necessary at all for him to-"
"Come now, Connor! No need to go hidin' ya allies, yeah?" Thomas mocked. It widened even more at the utterly furious look she shot him. Rocking back on his heels to appear less threatening, he gave Dobby an exaggerated bow while smoothly saying, "Oh, and I be Thomas-"
"Thomas what?" Dobby insisted.
Still bowed but looking up at her through dark lashes, Thomas smiled, "Seein' that we be havin' our own agendas going on here, you can just leave it at 'Thomas' miss."
"That so?"
"Quite so." Narrowing her eyes for a split second, Dobby waved for him to continue. "Like I be sayin'," Thomas insisted, "It always be a pleasure to be meetin' another of the Old Country, Miss…?"
"Call me 'Dobby,'" she slowly replied.
"Dobby what, madame?" Thomas replied with all the politeness of a school boy in front of his headmaster.
"Just 'Dobby' will do ya," she replied with slightly more ease. However, she made no move to curtsy or shake his hand. She didn't appear to have the patience for such manners. Not surprising, considering she was one of Connor's ilk in their little Brotherhood.
"So Connor," Thomas rose and whipped open the door of the tavern, "Don't ya think it be high time you go introducin' me to this William bloke? Considering we gotta so savin' his life and whatnot."
Dobby's eyes darted over to him as he waved them both inside. "And how exactly does he go knowin' all of this?" she prodded Conner in her arm with an elbow.
Grinding her teeth but following Dobby back inside, Connor muttered, "It is a long story, I'm afraid."
"And now, ya be stuck with me, lass," Thomas breezily declared.
"Unfortunately," she droned.
As they all made their way back to where William sat at his table and charmed one of the serving women, Connor seriously contemplated how much worse this could all get. By the gods, hopefully it would all be over soon.
Author's Notes
Non, absolument pas, ma chérie– "No, absolutely not, my dear" in French.
strainséir? – "Stranger" in Irish Gaelic
mo mháthair agus a athair – "My mother and father" in Irish Gaelic
mo buachaill álainn – "My lovely boy" in Irish Gaelic