Notes: Wow, it's been forever since I've updated. Thank you all so much for sticking around. One more chapter to go and then I'm done, I swear.
"Master Kenway, your guest be here," the tavern mistress Catherine startled Thomas from behind. His thoughts still whirling with panicked fear at Haytham's revelation concerning Connor being his daughter, he barely took in her curtsy as she continued, "I informed ya soon as he came in, just like you went askin'-"
"I see I impose upon your usual inebriated misdeeds, Hickey," a resonant, aggravated voice interrupted her. Hickey mindlessly threw General Matthew Davenport a rude gesture. Anything to distract from how his other hand obsessively rubbed at his knee beneath the table. Or how his eyes flit back and forth to Haytham. Luckily, the Grandmaster appeared to pay him no mind as Lee escorted their special guest the top of the stairs. Thankfully Lee didn't bother to spare a glance at Hickey as he retook his previous position to lean against the wall to Haytham's left.
Haytham's expression hardened for a few seconds before it slid to supposedly pleased. He stood and straightened out his waistcoat before bobbing his head in acknowledgement. "General Davenport," he held out a hand of greeting, "A pleasure to see you. It has been too long. I take it your journey from the field was filled with little in the way of trouble?"
His eyes darting from where Thomas blankly stared at him to Charles inspecting his nails, the General looked back to Haytham. Clicking his heels together, he bowed in formal greet before shaking Haytham's gloved hand. "It is never an inconvenience to answer a summons from our Grandmaster," he boldly replied.
"That is always good to hear," Haytham flashed a grin. "Please, have a seat," he raised a hand at the empty one next to Thomas. "Make yourself comfortable. I am sure you are in need of sustenance after such a long ride from Fort St. Mathieu?"
"I am afraid it has fallen to the Patriots," the General glowered. Thomas snorted out barely contained laughter. It earned him a look of reproach from the general as he sniffed, "A minor setback, I am sure of it."
"Let us hope so, for all of our sakes," Haytham curtly replied.
Much like his daughter, General Matthew Davenport dressed in a meticulously immaculate manner. Despite being out of uniform (with Boston firmly in Patriot hands now, he'd be a fool to wander around like the redcoat he was), his livery was of the latest fashion. He deftly removed his black, kidskin leather gloves one finger at a time and tucked them into the inner pocket of his hunter green longcoat. He wore a matching green silk frock coat and breeches tucked into black, Stovepipe riding boots. Their cuffs were stitched of contrasting oxblood colored leather. Obviously, newly imported from England.
A flick of his arm tossed his longcoat back to Catherine without a single glance of acknowledgment. Hickey shook his head in disbelief. "Ya be a fuckin' charmer, mate," he mumbled as Catherine was forced to duck the General's black, gold-trimmed tricorne that he also carelessly threw at her.
"How rude!" she exhorted. She promptly dumped the General's coat on the floor and began to stomp away. Even Charles frowned and tersely shook his head in agreement.
"So this is what passes for service around here?" the General huffed, "Why am I not surprised?" Digging into his frock coat pocket, he flipped Catherine a heavy gold coin. She spun around and went still as it hit the floorboards at her feet. Narrowing her eyes, she finally snatched it up along with his coat and hat.
"Still ain't no reason to be such a 'lil shit, sir," she muttered, "No matter how much coin ya got."
"Bring me a bottle of port,' he dismissively waved, "Assuming this place," he looked around in disgust, "Carries such a refined thing."
Gritting her teeth, Catherine shot a long look at Haytham. After staring at the General with a neutral expression, the tilt of his head sent her suddenly beaming and traipsing off back downstairs. Thomas swiftly looked between them before tearing through the last of his food. Distracted with adjusting the starched, lace ruffles of his tunic, the General couldn't see the Haytham and Lee's exchange of looks as he took the empty chair next to Thomas.
Hastily raising his empty tankard and shaking out the last of its drops, Hickey slurred, "Looks like I be needin' me a refill." Loping up from his seat, he let out a loud burp. It caused both Lee and the General to roll their eyes. "See you all inna bit."
"I have other business to attend to this night," Lee pushed himself up from the wall. "Always a pleasure, Haytham," he dropped a hand to the Grandmaster's shoulder.
"Same to you," he steadily replied, "Goodnight Charles."
"Naturally, sir," Lee nodded with a bright smile. He didn't exchange a single word with the General as he followed Thomas down the stairs. Paying his tab at the bar, he hailed a coach and headed home.
Nose wrinkling at Thomas' back, the General drawled, "How ever do you tolerate such a vulgar, indolent lout as Hickey? Surely, he has worn out his welcome? Years ago, most would say."
"You underestimate his talents," Haytham smoothly retorted. Setting down his quill, he neatly stacked the papers he worked on before corking the inkpot and placing it on them to keep them in their place.
Thomas soon meandered back up the stairs and dropped into his seat. Catherine followed behind him with an unopened bottle of port and wineglasses. She carefully set each of them down in front of the three men. "I hope it be to your likin'," she sarcastically declared.
Wrinking his nose, the General waved her away, "More than likely, it will not be." Mumbling curses, Catherine sauntered away.
"Please," Haytham raised a magnanimous hand at the bottle, "Do the honors."
Flipping open his pocket knife, Matthew sliced off the label and uncorked it. He poured them each a full glass before setting it down. He admittedly cocked a suspicious eyebrow at the bottle until Thomas immediately downed his entire serving.
"One is supposed to allow the draught to breathe," Matthew smirked.
"I got no fucks to go givin' 'bout your snobbity concerns, mate," Thomas slurred while pouring himself another drink. "It be liquor. So?" he jeerily clasped the stem of the glass between two fingers, "Good for drinkin'."
"Come now, Thomas," Haytham clucked his tongue, "No need to rile our guest."
Gaze sliding between the other two before flitting to their glasses, Thomas shrugged, "Fine 'en. Ain't no skin off me back."
"Like water off of a duck," Matthew sniffed. Turning to Haytham, he continued, "No wonder he proves ever so useful in the Order's seedier endeavors? He's right at home among them."
Taking a long, slow sip of his drink, Haytham swirled it around in its goblet. "Without his efforts, I'm afraid that we'd constantly find ourselves insolvent."
Waving a finger at the General, Thomas slowly said, "Damned straight! We'd get to bein' in…in…whatever he went to sayin'."
"Such an intellectual heavyweight you are," Matthew derided before taking a short drink of his port. Features slightly brightening, he said, "Surprisingly, it does not taste like pisswater even with," he took another sip, swirling it around his mouth before he swallowed, "It erring on the side of too sweet."
"Looks can be quite deceiving," Haytham intoned, topping off the other men's glass. "For example?" he continued, "Thomas has gone far above and beyond in his duties for me."
"The Order has always been about you, of course," Matthew distantly replied. He boldly stared at Haytham's raised over the rim of his glass as he slowly finished off its contents.
Haytham and Matthew continued with polite conversation about nothing while Thomas finished off another glass. Admittedly, he was beginning to get impatient. As far as he was concerned, it was high time he point out the General's treachery so he could get the hell home aleady. He checked his pocket watch with a huff. Nearly half an hour had passed.
"'Ow much longer?" he sniffed at Haytham.
Haytham only shrugged and stole a glance at the General.
The General frowned at the sudden numbness that came over his hands. As well along the soles of his feet. Odd, the room was unusually chilly despite the roaring fire in the hearth to their right. Not to mention the crush of people downstairs. Hickey was down to his waistcoat and tunic. His longcoat was also tossed on a peg on the wall while his frockcoat haphazardly slung across the back of his chair. While Haytham would never appear so casual, he was without his hat, a few beads of sweat breaking out along his brow. Yet the General found himself pulling his frockcoat tighter around himself. He also flexed his fingers to get the feeling back in them.
"Is something wrong, Matthew?" Haytham demurred.
"A slight chill, 'tis all," The General shakily waved despite his best efforts to keep his hand steady. "I rode through a near…blizzard to arrive here as soon I received his summons," he stiltedly nodded at Haytham. His neck throbbing, he swallowed back a painful cough. "Most especially since," he stammered, "Since you mentioned you have word of my...Eleanor?"
"Understandable," Haytham lifted his glass in his direction before finishing off his serving. He poured himself another one, followed by topping of Thomas' glass.
"So," the General coughed, "What exactly d-did you wish…wish of m-me-?"
Without warning, he collapsed to the table so hard that his head slammed into its wooden surface cheek first. His legs jerking and hands spasming, they clenched and unclenched into shaky fists. Choked, shallow wheezes bubbled up from his throat and filled the air. Sweat slid down his brow as drool fell from his slackened mouth to begin pooling on the table. He wildly blinked as his legs slackened and his fingers twitched out of their fists. Yet his chest still rose and fell with labored breathing. Slouched and unable to move, only his eyes appeared able to blink.
"Whelp," Thomas reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. Withdrawng a small, glass vial of clear liquid, he tossed it to Haytham. "Guess this stuff works like it be sayin' it do."
Haytham nodded, "Thank you, Thomas."
"Ain't no problem."
"The chironex fleckeri, or Sea Wasp, is type of rather large jellyfish," Haytham smoothly said to General Davenport. "Enough of its venom can kill a fully grown man," he held up the vial to the light of the chandelier above them. Swirling around its liquid for a moment, he tucked it away into his pocket. "The thing is, before it eats its victims, it paralyses them. As it prefers to feed on living prey."
"Costs a fuckin' fortune and a few months to go gettin' me hands on since it be comin' all the way from Siam," Thomas smirked, "But with me connections? No biggie a'tall."
"Though this is the first time I've used it. Perhaps you're wondering how I managed to administer the venom that's currently paralyzing you, yes?" Haytham steepled his fingers on front of himself. "Don't worry, it shall not kill you. Thomas didn't use nearly enough to do such. Or else you would have been dead in the matter of five minutes."
Thomas smirked and flicked a finger against the General's empty glass. "I went swabbin' it 'round the inside of your fancy goblet when I went downstairs after Kitty," he barked out a laugh. "Took only a few minutes to go dryin'. So long as I wasn't no knobhead and switched the glasses up, it worked all fine 'n good. Which be why me and the 'ole Grandmaster 'ere," he lazily waved at Haytham, "Had no problem with takin' a drink from our own glasses. 'Cause they be clean as a whistle."
Haytham gave Thomas a reassuring nod. "Now, General, is it evident as to why I, as you say it, I keep him around?"
"Well'en mate," Thomas lurched out of his chair, "Sorry to deprive you all of me lovely company, but I gotta get the fuck home. Surely, you ain't minding that much, considerin' your current situation, eh?" He slapped Matthew on the back, chuckling at the fact that he could only rapidly blink in reply. "Didn't think so. See ya, Haytham!" he sloppily saluted from his temple.
"Same to you, Thomas," the Grandmaster nodded, "You have earned a bit of rest for your efforts."
"I ain't arguing with that, gov'nor!" he guffawed while glancing over his shoulder to cover his unease.
It took him a long bit to steady himself enough to trundle down the stairs. His vision still swam from the liquor he'd imbibed. He was also forced to clutch at the bannister to ensure he didn't slip and break his neck. None of it was helped along by the furious turning of his thoughts concerning Connor's newly revealed father.
Again, Jesus. Fucking. CHRIST.
Yep, it was definitely time for him to take his arse home.
Looking over to Thomas' exit, Haytham moved his tricorne from the empty chair next to him. He carefully set it down at the end of the table and folded his arms across his chest. "Now that I have your undivided attention, General Davenport," he drawled and drummed his fingers on his upper arm, "The question of the night is, whatever shall I do with you?"
Matthew could only continue to blink as a hitched whine fell from his slackened lips. Rolling his eyes, Haytham shrugged and stood. Ambling over to his longcoat, he removed it from the peg on the wall to reveal his swordbelt. A flick of his hands unsheathed his weapons.
"Let's see where we stand then, shall we?" Haytham retook his seat. He slowly lined up his flintlock next to his golden pommeled, sharpened dagger of glinting steel. He then unhurriedly placed a handful of poison darts next to it. Leaning back, he leisurely unclasped his hidden blade and set it alongside the darts.
"As much as the Order attempts to deny it, the reality of the world is that it would not exist if we did not allow for choice. Or," he clasped his hands together before leaning his elbows on the table, "At least the illusion of such." He rolled his Templar ring around his ring, staring at it for a moment. "For example, when I inducted you into our inner circle, I left the decision to join us entirely up to you. I never forced nor blackmailed you. I made no threat against you, nor against your family should you reject the offer. I simply made a request of your membership due to your talents and drive. And yet? You have betrayed me."
Letting out a deep sigh, Haytham took a long sip of port. He swirled it around in its goblet for a bit before checking his pocket watch. He had plenty of time before the effects of the paralysis wore off.
Standing again, he strolled around to the other side of the table. Without warning, his hand lashed out to back of Matthew's shirt collar and he began to tightly twist it. Only bit more pressure would start to strangle the General completely. Crouching, Haytham growled, "What would you have me do, Matthew? Perhaps I should follow your merciful example and end your life quickly? As you had the Hessian do with our own Templar agents?"
The General could do nothing at the heaviness abruptly upon his back and just above his kidneys. His gaze widened at the absence of the dagger on the table. Haytham must have palmed it and was currently pressing it to his flesh.
"Of course, I expect you to plead, beg and utterly insist that you have changed," Haytham snarled. "People change, yes. But people don't change other people. Rather, circumstances cause people to evolve. So unfortunately for you, I won't believe a single word that falls from your treacherous mouth," he shrugged, voice falling back to neutral. "Which is why I decided to save us both the waste of time and explain how things shall be going forward."
Haytham moved back to his side of the table and re-took his seat. Rolling his shoulders, he carefully began gathering back up his weapons.
"I have your precious daughter under the best of care, so do you worry yourself on that," Haytham calmly began. "She's being attended to by the most worthy surgeons in all of Boston. Though they have very clear instructions to answer only to me. Considering how precarious her life hangs in the balance, it is the only thing to be done."
At the General's widening eyes, Haytham let out a low chuckle as he once again rose from his seat.
"It seems than an assassin gravely injured Eleanor. As for once, that wretched Brotherhood seemed to have some sense and was also after the Hessian. Not that I blame your child for familial loyalty. I perfectly understand why she chose to side with her father in attempting to betray us. Which explains why she been running orders from you directly to the Hessian for the last eight months or so. A pity she was caught."
"So now," Haytham sighed, sheathing his weapons, "She will remain under my care. Alas," he patted the General on his cool cheek, "No more errands are to be carried out for her father from now until, well, whenever I see fit to return her to you. That's assuming I ever decide for such a day to come."
Haytham wiped his hands down his waistcoat and straightened his sleeves. Turning toward the mirror hanging in the corner, he arranged his hat on his head. A flurry of his fingers buckled on his holster. Wandering back over to his frockcoat, he slid it on.
"I'm sure it will be quite easy from here on out to remember were your loyalties lie, Matthew," Haytham breezily said, "Especially with your daughter in my custody. We wouldn't want, well, anything to happen to her, would we?" he dropped a hand to the General's shoulder. "After all," his voice fell to a dangerous hiss, "No parent ever wishes to bury their child. Particularly, their only flesh and blood remaining."
The General remained helpless on the table as Haytham hummed and pulled on his longcoat. Wrapping a scarf about his neck, he pulled on his leather gloves and headed towards the stairs. However, he suddenly turned around.
"Forgive me, I've nearly forgotten," Haytham dug into his pocket. Setting a piece of paper with his handwriting on it under Matthew's goblet, he said, "Here is the name of what I used on you. You may wish to see a surgeon. For I've heard it can have some rather nasty side effects. Good night General."
Tipping his hat, he made way down the stairs. Settling his tab and bribing Catherine a few more pounds to keep an eye on their guest, he headed out.
Haytham distractedly mounted his horse and tipped the stable for his efforts before slowly making his way to the street. For his thoughts continued unwinding along the new developments concerning his daughter. As well as her decision to repeatedly spare Thomas' life.
Everyone back in the tavern, including the unusually cantankerous Charles, damn well knew how effortlessly she could've killed him if she so desired. Particularly in light of a lack of any sort of hindrances. Which was very much unlike circumstances of her detention in Bridewell Prison last time their paths crossed. She'd also come dangerously close to ending him at the gallows. Even back then, Thomas freely admitted that it was again her choice to not deal the death blow.
She ended John Pitcairn's and William Johnson's lives with nary a second consideration. She nearly killed Mallow. She assisted in the elimination of the Hessian. His agents in the field increasingly ended up grievously injured or in coffins at the hands of her suspected cronies. The Assassin flag ship, the alleged "Ghost of the North Seas," was spotted more often than not by Cormac and Biddle. Not to mention the numerous sinkings of British ships attributed to it. It was even rumored to have successfully fired on the British fort on Goat Island, resulting in it falling into the hands of the Patriots. In spite of his own attempts to wipe it out once again, the Brotherhood continued expanding almost exponentially in the last five years.
Nevertheless, Hickey remained in one piece. Regardless of her personal vendetta against him. It was all Haytham could assume she felt against Thomas, considering her actions in prison (there were still unanswered questions regarding how they were in such close proximity in the first place…). Thomas of course found every opportunity to bring it up. But the man had a point concerning how poorly he ended up on the other side of her lethal hands.
Yet she still had not killed him.
Haytham reached his home and turned in for the night. Yet his mind still fixated on how best to play the proverbial chess board as he drifted off to sleep.
He learned at an early age to never underestimate his enemies. So he despised that he couldn't make head or tails of the woman's motivations. He could no longer blame her continued existence on sheer luck. In the face of her naiveté, she didn't lack for intellect. She excelled at levels of adaptability that put most men to shame. And that was only with rudimentary training. With a proper hand of discipline and education to guide her, it was an easy leap from the raw idiocy of youth into the extraordinary.
Perhaps her growing connection with Hickey could be the lynchpin? His daughter held a stormy sort of grace and rough-hewn allure. Thomas certainly wasn't particular in his tastes. He didn't seem to disapprove of interactions with the Natives either. Mostly on account of Johnson's influence and his widow, who herself was a Native. Hickey's lecherous tendencies could be curbed for the right amount of coin. Most importantly, he never showed a hint of disloyalty to the Order.
Of course, disaster could strike at any time. Connor held an obvious disdain for colonial society. She rarely remained within the cities, escaping into the wilderness without a trace for weeks to months at a time. Conversely, Hickey thrived in their taverns, gambling halls and cathouses. Money slipped through his fingers like water. Frankly, it was the only reason he proved so successful at his black market endeavors since they supported his lifestyle without fail.
Whereas Hickey burned white hot with a flare for the hedonistic, Connor appeared to prefer an ascetic lifestyle. Everything about her screamed of an existence devoid of luxury or personal indulgence and tempered with austere detachment. Well, somewhat; the woman retained a simmering ire crawling beneath the surface of her solemn facade. It was obvious in the way she viciously killed her targets. Along with the path of destruction she'd left in her wake so far.
A potential partnership would not be without its trials. Then again, Haytham Kenway had always been one to defy expectations. Especially when the future of the Colonial Rite of the Templar Order dangled so precariously close to the precipice.
Thomas' head hurt something fierce. Which sure in the fuck wasn't helped along by the snowballing dread gnawing at his stomach. Let Haytham deal with General Davenport and his duplicitous bitching. For Thomas, it was high time he headed to his townhome on the other side the fashionable and increasingly wealthy North End neighborhood.
He staggered down the stairs of The Green Dragon in a mad search for Catherine. Finally locating her in the back of the tavern moving more liquor out of the storage room, he draped a shaky arm about her waist. "Go 'n get me home, lass," he leaned down and mumbled into her bonnet, "Right nowish be workin'."
"Need some company, love?" she sing-songed with a meaningful gesture around the large storage area.
"Not with me whiskey dick tonight, poppet," he slowly blinked. "You be knowin' I only like givin' you the best 'o times," he swiftly added at her disbelieving look.
"Have it be your way then," she shrugged.
After closing out his tab, Catherine led him outside. "You be callin' it an early night, darlin'," she shot him a sideways glance as he lurched into her. They both stood on the dark, snowy sidewalk in front of the tavern. Raising her arm to hail a public hackney coach, she sniffed, "It be barely past ten o'clock."
He let out mirthless chuckle. "Been on the road for near a fortnight, Kitty. I ain't no spring chicken no more. Gotta go headin' on home and get me beauty rest, yeah?"
"Sure thing," she distractedly nodded as a coach finally stopped at the curb. She grabbed him by the arms and jostled him inside. Slamming the door shut, she immediately shoved her hand into its window. Without delay, Thomas doled her out more coin. For they both knew she'd never go doing him such a favor for free.
"See you 'round, Tommy," she leered.
"Right-o," he grunted before calling out his address to the driver. The coach groaned and stuttered forward through the slush filled streets. Its rhythmic clacking along the cobblestones allowed him his first chance at solitude all night. Yet Thomas remained consumed with Haytham's revelation concerning Connor.
Or rather, his own bloody damn daughter.
Perhaps Connor wasn't even aware of her parentage? She made absolutely no mention of it. Not even at her most susceptible, when exhausted on the road or drunk off her arse. Then again, if she knew, why in the fuck would she ever bother to tell him? They barely restrained from sending each other to their graves in their first interactions. Let alone the constant insults flung back and forth after their mutual detente. Even a drunken fool could see how their misdeeds back at the cabin only served to cut down on the blistering tension. Apparently, fighting or fucking was all they successfully managed when tossed together.
It undoubtedly would've taken him a hell of a lot longer to navigate the wilderness without her. While infiltrating Fort St. Mathieu all by his lonesome wasn't too big a problem, he sure in the hell couldn't have driven out every single redcoat. She'd likely have lost the crucial element of surprise against their mutual enemies if not for his dealings with Mallow. Alerted to Connor, the Redcoat could've easily sent the Hessian to ambush Saint-Prix far earlier. No doubt, the loss of the Frenchman would be a decisive victory for the Templars. Just as Haytham's elimination of Connor could effectively wipe out the Assassins once and for all.
The bile rose up in Thomas' throat at the sheer thought of it. To eliminate your own flesh and blood? For the sake of stubborn ambition? Despite the increasingly evident potential of a truce?! Maybe it lay in his Irish roots and the centuries-long, slow destruction of his heritage by the English. Or the funds he gladly sent home to raise his sisters and brothers' lots in life. Or perhaps it was that his family never abandoned their mutual efforts to scrape out their meager existence. Hell, along with his parents, he had every single one of his brothers' and sisters' names inked just below his ribs on his right side, two by two.
You picked your friends at your leisure and fought your enemies at their weakest. But blood proved eternal. No way and no how did you go slaying your own kin. And none of that craven bullshit of directing others to do so flew either.
His inebriated mind suddenly dredged up how Haytham orchestrated Connor's hanging with such nonchalance. His utter dispassion as the bribed judge signed her death warrant with a smug flourish. His lack of a single word of retort of Lee's elated proclamation of how "the Indian cur's" death would end all of their troubles. How the Grandmaster personally took him aside and ordered that he relay to Connor that Templar power ensured her no trial and no mercy.
Her final moments shall be spent in unequivocal defeat, Haytham insisted. An example to whatever dregs remain of her Brotherhood. That they may never again so much as send out a whisper hindering our goals.
Jesus fucking Christ!
It all left a bitter taste in his mouth and a vile weight clawing at his chest.
"We be 'ere, sir!" the coachman chirped.
"Aye, mate," Thomas groggily replied, knocking on the roof, "Good'en."
He stumbled out of the coach and generously tipped the driver to ensure he waited around until after he let himself into his townhome. No need to get hit over the head and robbed if he could avoid it. After struggling to turn the key in the lock of the front door, he finally made his way inside. Shrugging out of his frockcoat, he tossed it on the peg next in the entranceway, along with his tricorne.
The house was dark and empty, as per usual. Cursing to himself, this was one of the few times he wished he employed servants. Having a fire going and food warm and waiting on the table was almost worth it right now. Save a couple of maids borrowed from his neighbors to air and dust out the house the day he rode into town, he had no staff.
It wasn't that he couldn't easily afford them. Haytham paid exceedingly well, and he made plenty on his own from his various illegal pursuits. But he was rarely home. Even when on leave from the army, old Kenway kept him plenty busy enough. So a staff lounging around in a house empty of its owner most of the time was an utter waste of funds. Funny how old habits from his early days of being so disgustingly poor never quite died. His mother would've laughed out loud at her baby boy's tendency toward watching his coin, God rest her soul.
The most he'd done was make the place livable. Years ago, before Johnson was killed, his wife Molly recommended some foppish architect to put the finishing touches on the exterior. Always with a weakness for a pretty face, Thomas let her have her way. After that, she took it upon herself to supervise buying all the furniture and décor. Admittedly, it started out with her bribing him with supper while visiting her husband in town. From there, she easily persuaded him into accompanying her to the fancy furniture shops lining Melton Road. Not that he was complaining.
As long as it ain't too girly 'n bright, he snorted. He suspiciously watched her studiously pour over fabric swatches and colors on the store countertop. I ain't no dandy sort 'o git.
And when have I ever let you down, Tom? she coyly replied, dark eyes fiery and determined.
Never, ma'am, he rubbed the back of his neck.
He blushed at her easy smile, marveling at how effortlessly she chose colors he was partial to. Mrs. Molly always treated him as a trusted son, no matter his rough accent or habits. It made her one of the few people he wholly trusted. A flyin' shame she was a widow now, their eight children without their father.
Thomas let out a ragged sigh while lighting the hearths throughout the house to warm it up. He then grabbed a cold plate of food from the icebox in the kitchen before retreating up the stairs to his quarters. Roomy and wide, his bedroom took up a large section of the entire floor. Banking up the fire, he lit the candles scattered throughout the room. After wolfing down his food, he headed off to bed.
As he stripped down to his smallclothes, he emptied out his trouser pockets. Tossing their contents on the desk tucked into the corner of the room, next came the pockets of his frock coat. Then, the inner pocket of his waistcoat. That's when his fingers brushed the edge of the eagle feather.
"Wot's this 'en?" he said aloud, yanking it out. Holding it up to the flickering lights of the silver candelabra sitting on the fireplace mantle, he sleepily watched its colors dance along its plumes.
Then, he started to laugh.
Among my people, it is the sign of a binding agreement, he recalled her words. Along with the unyielding determination etched across her freckled face when they formed their unexpected alliance. When we have completed our mission, I expect its return, signaling an end to our truce.
True, he'd never been one for semantics. But a deal was deal. He hadn't returned her precious feather, nor had she retrieved it. So officially, their truce was still in effect.
Thomas Hickey was never one to close the door on an opportunity. Not when he had a bird in the hand. Or rather, when the feather he currently twirled between his fingers was worth the proverbial two in the bush. No wonder he had the uncanny feeling that this wouldn't be the last he'd see of the she-wolf. Or those fancy twin blades of her little brotherhood of deadly troublemakers.
Only time would tell as to when their paths would next cross.