Scandalous Desires

Chapter Eight

Silence woke from a dream of a singing angel. He’d been tall and stern—like an angel carved in the door of a gothic church. An otherworldly being of great virtue and little sympathy. But his voice had been low and sweet, warming her from within like hot honey, making her bones liquid with relaxation—even though she’d known that the angel was a dangerous being from another world. That she ought to keep on the alert.

For a moment she lay still in the big bed, blinking sleepily, loath to move.

And then she realized that the angel’s song hadn’t stopped on her waking.

Silence sat up. The tantalizingly beautiful voice was coming from the half-open door to Mickey O’Connor’s room.

She rose, drawing a shawl about her shoulders and glanced at Mary Darling’s cot. It was empty, but she felt no alarm. She thought she might recognize that voice. Moving as quietly as she could she crept to the connecting door.

The sight within made her draw in her breath.

Mickey O’Connor stood across the room by the fireplace, his back toward her. He was clad only in tight black breeches and jackboots, his upper body nude. His broad back was a smooth olive expanse, the muscles that delineated his shoulders and arms in firm, sensuous bunches. And he was singing, his voice a wonderful, soaring tenor. She’d never heard anything so beautiful in her life. How was it possible that Mickey O’Connor, a man with a soul as black as tar, should have a voice the angels would envy?

He half-turned suddenly and she saw that he cradled Mary Darling to his strong chest. The little girl’s pink cheek was laid trustingly against him, her eyes closed in sleep. His hand moved gently in her inky curls, stroking her soothingly.

Silence must have made some sound at the sight. His eyes flashed to hers, yet he never stopped singing.

“My father and my mother

In yonder room do lay

They are embracing one another

And so may you and I

So take me in your arms, my love

And blow the candle out.”

She felt her face heat at his words, even though they were part of his song. He didn’t mean them for her. They were merely the words to an old ballad.

She knew that, yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. His dark eyes seemed to be telling her something, something apart from the song he sang so beautifully. She lifted a hand to her belly and pressed to still the trembling there.

His song died on a low, liquid note and he continued to stare at her.

Silence cleared her throat, fearful her voice would come out a croak. “Is she asleep?”

He blinked as if he, too, were waking from a dream, and glanced down at Mary Darling. “Aye, I’m a-thinkin’ she is—she’s stopped fussin’ at me.”

Silence felt a huge smile of relief spread over her face. “She was fussing? Oh, how wonderful!”

He shot her a look, one eyebrow arching. “Ye’ve taught the child to bully me, too, now?”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily, embarrassed. Did he really think she bullied him? What a silly notion! “It’s just that she’d been so listless. If she’s well enough to fret, then she must be feeling better.”

“Ah.” He glanced down at the baby’s head, his look nearly tender. “Then I’ll rejoice when she starts bawlin’ again at the top o’ her lungs.”

“You should,” Silence said as she crossed to him and gently took the sleeping baby. Mary mumbled something and snuggled against her bosom. Silence examined her anxiously. Mary’s cheeks were pink, but they weren’t the hectic red of before and her little body no longer felt as if it burned. Oh, thank God.

Silence looked up grinning. “I know I will. Far better a screaming baby than one that’s too quiet.”

“Aye,” he said, watching them with a somber light in his eyes. “I can well believe ye.”

She gazed down at Mary’s sleeping head, avoiding his eyes. She should leave his room, but she was oddly reluctant to do so. “You have a beautiful voice.”

He snorted. “Do I now?”

She looked up at him, puzzled by his dismissive tone. “You must know you do.”

He grimaced. “Aye, I suppose I do at that. I spent enough time when I was a lad singin’ for me supper.” He caught her questioning look. “When there was naught in the cupboard, me mam would take me down to the street corner. She’d lay a handkerchief on the ground at our feet and we’d sing for pennies. It might take minutes or hours or all day afore we had enough to buy our supper.”

Silence swallowed. He talked of begging for food so cavalierly, yet she knew now that the experience must’ve scarred him terribly. “How old were you?”

He cocked his head as if considering. “I don’t rightly know. One o’ me earliest memories is going to the corner on a freezin’ night in winter.”

“How awful!”

He looked at her sardonically. “There be worse ways to make a penny.”

She bit her lip. There were indeed worse ways in St. Giles to make money. So many came to London from the English countryside, from Scotland and Ireland and even from the continent. There were far too many for the jobs available. She sometimes saw the women coming home in the morning after a night of walking the streets. And it wasn’t just women who walked the streets. There were children, too, of both sexes.

Silence peeked at Mickey O’Connor from under her eyelashes. He was beautiful, his eyes dark and sensuous, his mouth mobile, his hair thick and black. He would’ve been a lovely child—too lovely.

“You’re Irish,” Silence blurted out and then felt the heat rise in her cheeks. The Irish were numerous in London—and almost universally despised.

He smiled, dimples creasing the corners of his mouth. “Aye, me mam came from Ireland lookin’ for work. She was one o’ ten children to a widowed mother, or so she told me. I never met me Irish kin. She came over alone.” He bent his head as he donned the shirt he’d taken from the back of a nearby chair. “ ’Tis a far cry from yer own family, I’ll wager.”

She nodded. “My father’s family has lived in London for generations. My mother’s people came from Dorset and live there still, though we don’t often see them.”

“Ye’ve a sister and a brother, I know,” he said.

“Two sisters and three brothers, actually,” she replied, smiling a little. “I’m the youngest of six children. There’s Verity—she brought up Temperance and me when our mother died, then Concord who took over Father’s brewery on his death. Both are married with families of their own now. Asa is my next brother, but I don’t know exactly what he does—he’s something of the black sheep of the family. Temperance used to run the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children before she married Lord Caire, and Winter is the next youngest above me.”

She stopped suddenly, a little out of breath. He probably thought her a ninny for prattling on about her family. It occurred to her that although her family was not rich, compared to his, she’d been quite well off. Further, in his world—a world of beggars and thieves—he had risen quite far. In his own way, Mickey O’Connor was a successful man.

“Ye’d a happy childhood.” The comment was a statement of fact, but she had the feeling that the idea was a foreign one for him. Dear Lord, what might his childhood have been like?

“Yes, I was happy,” she said simply. “My father was strict, but he loved all his children and made sure we each were properly educated. We may not have been rich, yet we never lacked for food or clothing.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “He was a good provider.”

“What of your family?” she asked tentatively. “What did your mother do when she came to London?”

He shrugged. “Afore I was born I’ve heard that she was a spinner for a time.”

“And then?” Silence whispered.

He looked at her, his face devoid of expression. “And then she met a monster.”

Silence covered Mary’s little head with her hand as if to shield her. How bad would a person have to be for a river pirate to consider him a monster?

Mickey’s beautiful mouth had twisted into a terrible snarl, his voice ragged and low. “She fell under his spell, this monster, for he was a silver-tongued man and knew well how to hide his evil. Hide it until she was too entangled in his web to free herself. He took her and made her his, blindin’ her so that she could never look entirely away from his dark eyes, never think without his voice in her head. He had a still and she helped him make gin. When the still wasn’t makin’ money, she’d whore herself for him, spendin’ nights on the streets and turnin’ out her pocket to him when she came home again. Sometimes he sent her out on the streets even when there was money, and she went without protest, so under his spell was she. ’Twas his way of keepin’ her firmly beneath his fist. Keepin’ her bewitched.”

“And your father?” she asked bravely. Had he been born from one of his mother’s nights walking the street?

He simply looked at her with those beautiful black eyes and did not reply.

MICK WATCHED THE color drain from Silence’s face. Was she simply repulsed by his poverty-ridden upbringing and the fact that his mother had been a whore? Or had she some little care for him? A tiny bit of sympathy for the devil himself?

She stood before him clad only in a worn chemise and equally worn shawl, cradling the baby in her arms. He’d grown enormously erect in the last few minutes, simply from staring at her. He’d donned his shirt, but left it untucked from his breeches in feeble disguise. Silence’s chemise hung only to her calves. Her lower legs were smooth and delicately shaped. He could just make out—if he squinted hard—the shadowed outline of her thighs. He fancied he could see a dark triangle as well, but that was probably the product of his over-heated brain. Still, his cock didn’t seem to care between reality and fantasy.

Did she have no sense of self-preservation? he wondered, suddenly irritable. She knew what he was, his unremorseful cruelty, and yet she stood before him only half-clad and as innocently unaware as a lamb. Except that wasn’t the entire truth. His gaze dropped to the child’s curly black hair. Silence had been worried about the baby. It was her love for the child that made her vulnerable and he had an urge to protect that—both the woman and the maternal love she held.

That love within her was more precious than all the gold in his throne room.

“I-I had no idea how awful your childhood was,” she said.

He blinked and had to think to remember the conversation they’d been engaged in. “No matter. Me tale is one that’s often told in St. Giles.”

“But it shouldn’t be. Your mother should’ve protected you.” He chanced a glance and saw she was nibbling on her bottom lip, her eyes uncertain. He nearly groaned.

He arched a mocking eyebrow. “The way of the world, isn’t it? Children are born from sin and learn to look to themselves as soon as they can walk. Why should me childhood be any different?”

“Because we aren’t animals,” she said simply. “You deserved better.”

He barked a laugh to cover the bloody pain her words drew from his breast. “Perhaps in yer world—”

“In yours as well!”

“A person cares about himself, and only himself,” he said, suddenly weary of this conversation, “in yer world or mine. Me mam was no better or worse than any other and I didn’t deserve more. Yer silly to think otherwise.”

“No.” He felt the touch of her hand on his arm and looked down in surprise to find her gripping his arm with feminine strength. He raised his gaze and saw that her eyes blazed greeny-brown at him. “I may not be as sophisticated as you. I may not have constant, changing lovers, I may not carelessly disregard the law and common morals, I may not live the romantic life of a river pirate, but I know this, Mickey O’Connor: all children deserve a loving mother. And a mother who truly loved her child would do anything—anything—to protect and save him.”

He looked into her fierce face, her delicate cheeks flaming with passion, her lips stained a rose red, and the small child she still held protectively in her arms and felt himself fall, tumbling helplessly, all thought stopped in his head. She took his breath away with her simple avowal: A mother should protect her child. Something came loose in his chest.

Dear God, he wanted this woman.

He remembered, as he stared down at her, the cold nights on the streets, the leather strap against his back, and that final, terrible confrontation.

“Perhaps me mother didn’t truly love me then,” he whispered.

Her magnificent eyes suddenly swam with tears. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean that you didn’t deserve to be loved.”

And he couldn’t help it. She wept—for him.

He touched his lips to hers and unlike their first kiss, this one was nearly chaste. He couldn’t draw her body near because the baby was still between them. Still, he could savor her softness. He hid his claws and brushed his mouth against hers, as delicately as a butterfly’s wings on a petal. She breathed a sound and he tilted his head, licking softly, tenderly, over her mouth. His cock was straining against the fabric of his breeches, but he made none of his usual decisive moves to take this further. He was strangely content simply to savor her lips. To savor Silence herself.

When at last he raised his head, her beautiful eyes were dazed.

He smiled a little, and stroked one finger over her soft cheek. She tilted her face toward his hand, as if without thought. He watched his finger stroke down her elegant neck, over her collarbone and onto the upper slope of her left breast, just revealed by the top of her chemise.

He swallowed, staring at his swarthy finger against her creamy skin. “Ye should go.”

He raised his eyes to hers.

He didn’t know what she saw there, but whatever it was, it made her turn away without speaking. She fled the room.

Mickey cursed under his breath, letting his head fall back against the wall. His cock still beat angrily against his clothing. Once he would’ve simply sent for a whore. Now that thought was oddly unsatisfying. He could have a willing woman, a woman who would do anything he might request of her, even the most exotic acts of sex, but instead his flesh wanted just one woman.

A woman who was as fierce in her maternal love as he had been as a boy in his will to survive.

Just thinking of her—the flush that had lit her face, her lips rose red from his kiss—made his cock leap eagerly.

Mickey swore and unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. He’d never been one to deny himself pleasure of any sort. He reached inside his breeches now and drew out his swollen flesh and looked down. Liquid had oozed from the tip of his randy member, making the dark plum head glisten. He spat on his palm and took the thing in his hand.

Jaysus, what would she do if she knew what he was doing right now? Her stormy eyes would widen in shock, he knew, if she could see him, but mightn’t they also show a bit of interest as well? He chuckled breathlessly at the thought, and imagined her sitting in the chair before his fireplace, watching as he fisted his cock. Her eyelids would droop with desire. She might let her head fall back, revealing the vulnerable heartbeat in her throat.

He groaned and slid his palm faster over his straining rod.

Would she let her legs fall open? If she did he’d come closer. He might kneel at her feet, still achingly hard, and slowly lift her tattered chemise. He’d reveal white thighs, the tender crease separating leg and stomach, and that place between where soft, curly hair grew. Would her bush be full or merely a few wisps at the top of her slit?

Mickey lifted his lip in a snarl, canting his hips, stroking his other hand over his own belly and thigh, to reach his bollocks drawn up tight in lust.

He’d take his thumb and run it through that sweet cleft, watch the tender petals part, inhale the scent of her desire. And when he placed his mouth on her and suckled, she’d arch beneath his hand. He’d need to press his palm on her belly to hold her, but still she’d scream—

His crisis hit him hard and fast, making him groan as he spilled his seed on the floor.

He rested against the wall, still caressing his aching flesh. If merely thinking about the act with Silence was that explosive, then how would it be to actually lick her? A small smile curved his lips. He’d bet his next haul that her puritan husband had never showed her that particular pleasure. He’d give much to be the first one to lick her sweet pussy.

If she’d ever let him…

DEAR LORD.

Silence carefully, quietly, closed the connecting door to Mickey O’Connor’s room and leaned back against it, her hand to her breast. She could feel her heart beating much too fast under her palm.

She’d known the moment she’d cracked the connecting door and peered inside that the scene within was not for her eyes. When she had entered her own room, she’d put Mary down and come back to say something to him—what she could no longer remember. The sight within had driven all thought from her mind. Mickey O’Connor’s head had been arched back, his strong neck corded with strain, his black breeches unbuttoned and his hand had been working his manhood.

He’d been simply… mesmerizing.

She should’ve closed the door at once. Should have never dared to peek at what had obviously been a very private moment. But somehow she couldn’t make herself close the door. It wasn’t just curiosity. It had been something more. She’d talked to Mickey O’Connor. Not as supplicant to pirate, but as one human being to another. That simple act—talking—had changed everything. She no longer thought of him as just a pirate. He was a man now, a living, breathing man. A man who could be hurt.

A man she could be attracted to.

And once that line had been crossed, she could never go back. He was real to her now, and while the pirate evoked fear and dread and even revulsion, the man—the real man beneath—was infinitely alluring.

So she’d stayed at the crack in the door, watching breathlessly as Mickey O’Connor did something very earthly indeed. She’d remembered his kiss as she watched. It hadn’t been like their first kiss. That had been wild and erotic and tinged with anger. No, the kiss he’d just given her was sweetly gentle—so gentle she’d found herself falling helplessly. He had been the one to pull back, he had been the one to tell her she must leave.

Silence tiptoed to her bed and lay down, still breathing fast. What had he been thinking as he stroked the shaft of his penis? Had he thought of her? She was hot just wondering, but surely it was not coincidence that he’d done that just after they’d kissed. The thought of bringing such a strong man, such a viral man to the point of using his own flesh—because of her…. well, it was arousing.

She gazed at the canopy over the bed, remembering. His penis had looked very big in his hand and it’d gleamed in the firelight as if wet. She’d been married for two years, but William had been a properly modest man. She’d only glimpsed him nude once or twice. Sometimes, late at night, lying beside him as he slept, she thought about what he must look like, but she’d quickly shoved the speculations from her mind as immodest.

This must be the sin of Onan. She’d spent long hours as a young girl wondering what exactly Onan had done to spill his seed upon the ground. Later, when she’d been older, she’d heard whispers of this act that men performed. She’d even once broached the subject with William, in a single, stuttering question. He’d made it quite plain then that her curiosity over the matter was not proper.

But what Mickey O’Connor had done did not seem particularly sinful. It had actually been rather wonderful. He’d gripped himself with casual certainty. Obviously he’d performed this act before. She clenched internally at the thought. Did he not have enough women to satisfy him? Or was the act particularly pleasurable for him?

Dear God. She ached, wanting something that she knew was a sin.

Wanting a man who was sin itself.

“THE OWNER OF the Alexander has paid his tithe,” Bran said later that day.

“Has he?” Mick replied disinterestedly.

He’d not seen Silence since he’d sent her away this morning, but their kiss haunted him. Even after taking care of his lust, his flesh still demanded her. He smiled wryly to himself. A kiss. A simple kiss and he was panting after Silence.

“Mick?”

And forgetting where he was it seemed. Mick glanced at his lieutenant. “Ye’ll have to repeat yerself, Bran, me lad, I’m afraid me head is in the clouds.”

“Your head has been in the clouds since you brought Mrs. Hollingbrook here,” Bran said in a voice that cracked at the end of his sentence.

Mick had been sitting in his desk chair, his long legs carelessly flung over the arm. Now he slowly straightened and let his booted feet hit the floor heavily. “Have ye somethin’ ye wish to say to me?”

The boy held his gaze—a feat that many older and brawnier men had failed to do. Mick noticed that Bran’s jaw was darkened with his beard. A year or so ago, one could hardly make out the fuzz on Bran’s cheeks. His shoulders seemed heavier, too—and was he an inch taller? Perhaps it was past time Mick stopped thinking of Bran as a boy.

“You always told me that a man must make his decisions with his head, not his cock,” Bran said. “You said that a man entangled by a wench couldn’t think straight. That he lays himself open to misstep and misstep leads to ruin.”

Mick tilted his head, studying Bran thoughtfully. “Why, Bran, me lad, I had no idea ye’d taken me words so to heart.”

Bran merely stared at him, looking a little sullen. “She’s distracted you.”

Mick felt a prick of irritation. “And what o’ yer fair Fionnula, now? Hasn’t she caught yer cock and yer attention?”

“No.”

“No?” Mick laughed. “Come, Bran, ye needn’t lie to me. Our pretty Fionnula loves ye true.”

“She might,” Bran said coldly, “but that doesn’t mean I love her.”

Mick narrowed his eyes. “Then ye’d give her up, were I to order ye to?”

“Aye.”

“And if I told ye to bring her to me bed?” Mick asked softly. “Would ye bring the lass and sweetly hand her over to me?”

“In a thrice,” Bran said stubbornly. “Is that what you want?”

Mick felt his mouth curve. “Oh, not at the moment, no, but I am that glad to hear ye’d whore out yer sweetheart should I want her. Such loyalty is more than a man should expect.”

Finally Bran showed unease. A mottled red flush rose on his neck. “It’s what you asked for.”

“Was it?” Mick asked gently. “I wasn’t exactly sure.”

For a moment Bran stared at Mick, some kind of emotion working behind his features.

Mick watched him thoughtfully. They were all on edge after the deaths of Sean, Mike, and Pat, but something more seemed to be bothering Bran.

Mick came to a decision. “I want ye leadin’ the next raid.”

Bran’s eyes widened in shock. “You’ve never let anyone lead but yourself.”

“Aye, and perhaps it’s time I did,” Mick said. “Ye aren’t tryin’ to back out now, are ye?”

“No! I’d be happy to lead in your stead.”

“Good,” Mick said. “Ye’ll need to make a plan and report back to me on it, hear?”

A grin split Bran’s face. Suddenly he looked more like the oversmart scamp Mick had taken on so long ago. “Aye, Mick!”

He was out the door in an instant.

Mick chuckled to himself. He should’ve given Bran the responsibility months ago. Well, at least he’d done so now.

The door opened again and Harry’s ugly mug appeared. “Mr. Pepper would like a word.”

Mick nodded. “Send him in, then.”

Harry made to leave, but Mick called, “Harry?”

“Aye?”

“How’s the lass?”

Harry’s broad face relaxed into a grin. “Mrs. ’Ollingbrook sent down for more vittles this afternoon—the babe is eatin’ like a starvin’ wolf cub.”

Mick sat back, feeling like grinning himself. “She’s better?”

“Oh, aye,” Harry said. “She’s been chasin’ Lad ’round the room and even Bert ’as smiled at ’er play.”

Mick’s eyebrows shot up. “Bert smiled?”

“Well…” Harry considered. “ ’Is mouth twitched anyway. Might’ve been gas, but I like to think ’twere a smile.”

“Huh,” Mick grunted. If Bert was moved by the baby she was quite the charmer. He felt an odd sensation in his chest, something that might’ve been pride.

The rest of the day went by slowly as he examined the books with Pepper and discussed the special “insurance” investments that Pepper had made on his behalf.

It wasn’t until Mick was walking to his dining room, feeling anticipation, that he realized Silence most likely wouldn’t be there tonight. While the baby had been sick, he’d ordered food brought for both her and the child to their rooms. The toddler might be feeling better now, but Silence would probably still stay with her to make sure of her health.

He walked to his seat, barely acknowledging his men. What was it about the woman that his supper should be bleak without her? Every other woman he’d only valued for what lay between her legs. He wanted that from Silence as well—make no mistake—but he also had the strangest urge to simply talk with the woman. To flirt and provoke and watch her brown-green-blue eyes spark in outrage, soften with interest, warm with heat.

Mick sat and stared down at a plate of roast goose without interest, irritated by his own apathy. He’d eaten countless meals without the wench and been perfectly happy—joyous, even—why then should—

“Don’t you like roast goose?”

He felt the grin stretch his lips before he even looked up. “It’s me favorite.”

She looked adorably confused—and a little shy. Perhaps she was remembering the kiss they’d shared that morning. The thought gave him a tender pang near his heart.

She licked her lips. “Then why were you staring at your plate as if you wished the goose was alive again so you might slaughter it?”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and propping his chin in one hand to watch her. She’d slept some since he’d last seen her, despite the baby’s return to activity. Her cheeks were a light, healthy pink, and her eyes bright and alert. The sight gladdened him, though he frowned a little at her dress. She wore her usual black with but a white cap and white collar. He’d once seen her in brown, but that had been a year ago.

What would she look like in sparkling blue or deepest red? His gaze dropped to her breasts, barricaded behind worsted wool. She was slim, but still nicely rounded. He’d wager her breasts would look a treat framed by a low-cut emerald bodice, her fair skin shimmering in the candlelight. He’d give—

“Have some boiled turnips,” she said, passing him a bowl.

Mick frowned. “Turnips? At me table? I’ll have a word with Archie, I will.”

“There’s no need,” she said blithely as she served him the misshapen vegetables. “I already have.”

His eyebrows arched. “What do ye mean?”

“I mean,” she said as she accepted a dish of boiled beef from Moll, “that I discussed with Archie the food you serve at your table and I’ve made a few healthful additions. I think you’ll find that your digestion improves considerably.”

He watched in bemusement as she added a heaping mound of steaming carrots to his plate. She was serving him as if she had every right. As if she were the mistress of his table and his home. Strange that. He supported an entire household of people—pirates, servants, and until recently a bevy of doxies—but no one had ever attempted to care for him. The thought spread warm pleasure through his chest—even if the things she was serving did not.

“Vegetables and good English beef, simply prepared, are quite beneficial for the constitution,” she said.

Mick grunted. He’d never been particularly fond of boiled anything.

“Try some,” she said, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright and encouraging.

He looked down the table and saw that his crew were staring, appalled, at huge platters mounded with boiled roots and beef.

Mick narrowed his eyes. “Every man eats vegetables tonight, right?”

The pirates hurriedly began to spoon up carrots and turnips.

Mick forked up a turnip and bit into it, chewing bland mush.

“How is it?” Silence asked.

“Right tasty,” he lied, swallowing.

“You seem distracted tonight,” she said as she frowned at a platter of artichokes.

“Do I?” If he squinted a bit, he could imagine the shadowy curves he’d glimpsed beneath the chemise this morning. Tantalizing, elusive, damned unclear. Mick sighed and looked up to find Silence staring at him, her cheeks flagged red.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve et yer food. Can ye not taste mine?” He pushed the platter of artichokes closer to her, wanting her to eat the food he provided for her.

“Thank you.” She examined the platter with a small frown. “Are you planning another thieving raid?”

“Pirate’s raid.” He propped an elbow on the table. There was a dish of boiled beef by his side, but he had the feeling it wouldn’t taste that different from the turnips. “Why? D’ye hope I’ll meet me bloody death at the end o’ a sword?”

“Dear Lord, no!” She stared at him, appalled. “I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.”

“Even me?” he murmured.

She blushed as she hurriedly helped herself to an artichoke, avoiding his eyes. “Especially not you.”

Something in his chest squeezed.

“Such a saint,” he murmured low. He didn’t want to share this banter with anyone else at the table. “I can almost see yer halo, a-glowin’ in these curls at yer temples.”

He reached out a hand to brush the curls in question. They were little wisps, escaping from the prim knot at her neck, innocently seductive against the delicate skin of her temple.

She caught his hand before he could touch her face.

“Mick,” she whispered, and he felt a sudden thrill: it was the first time she’d used his given name. Her gaze darted down the rest of the table. His men were too smart to be openly looking, but he had no doubt that they were quite aware of what was happening at the head of the table. “Don’t.”

She abruptly dropped his hand.

“Ye wound me, love,” he said lightly, and wondered if it were true. Heaven help him if it were.

“Don’t be silly,” she muttered. “I’m surprised you know what a halo is.”

He grinned. “Oh, I do assure ye the Devil knows his opposite.”

Her brows drew together. “Is that who you see yourself as? The Devil himself?”

He arched his eyebrows. “D’ye doubt it?”

“I didn’t used to.” She poked at her artichoke thoughtfully. “But now I’m no longer sure.”

“Oh, be sure.” He tapped the table with a fingertip for emphasis. “I am the Devil himself, born and bred.”

“Are you? I wonder…” She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then down at her untouched artichoke. “What is this thing?”

“The artichoke?” His lips quirked.

“Is that what it’s called?” She stared disapprovingly down at the vegetable. “I’ve never seen the like. It looks like a giant flower bud.”

“Well, ’tis—or so I’m told.” He gently took the fork from her fingers and picked up her knife, beginning to pry apart the dark green leaves. “They’re grown far away in Italy. A sea captain gave me a crate o’ the things some years ago.”

“Gave?” She raised her eyebrows suspiciously.

He shrugged and flashed her a sly smile. “Gave, took, does it matter, love? To be sure the captain hadn’t much choice, but the result was the same: a case o’ artichokes ended up in me care and I’ve had a fondness for them ever since.”

“Humph.” She peered down suspiciously as he parted the leaves to reveal the choke. “That doesn’t look very tasty.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” he said. “Pay heed: the artichoke is a shy vegetable. She covers herself in spine-tipped leaves that must be carefully peeled away, and underneath shields her treasure with a barricade o’ soft needles. They must be tenderly, but firmly, scraped aside. Ye must be bold, for if yer not, she’ll never reveal her soft heart.”

He finished cutting away the thistles and placed the small, tender heart on the center of her plate.

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s it? But it’s so small.”

“Ah, and d’ye judge a thing solely upon size alone?”

She made a choking sound.

He paused, the knife and fork still in the air. “Now what is it yer thinkin’ about in that prim little mind?”

She shook her head mutely and pointed at the artichoke heart. “Go on?”

“Hmm.” He took bit of soft butter and spread it over the little heart. “Well, I was thinkin’ that sometimes the smaller the treasure, the sweeter the pleasure.”

He cut the heart in half and held it out to her on the tip of the fork and found he was holding his breath. Would she let him feed her? Let him care for her?

She stared suspiciously for a long moment before accepting the morsel into her mouth. His heart leaped in triumph. He watched as the taste in her mouth was reflected in her bright eyes.

“So delicate, so buttery,” he crooned to this fascinating woman. “Green and rich and smooth, but with a tiny bitter taste on top as if to keep yer interest.”

She swallowed and licked her lips. “It’s rather good.”

He laughed breathlessly. Have care, part of his brain whispered. This way only leads to pain. But his cock was pressing hard against the placket of his breeches and he wanted to take her hand and draw her away to his rooms and keep her there until she learned to scream in pleasure.

Until she screamed his name and no other.

“Yes, rather good,” he imitated her tones gently. “Well worth the trouble o’ the thorns and the prickles to reach that sweet, meltin’ center, I think.”