Scandalous Desires

Chapter Nine

Silence savored the exotic taste of the artichoke as she listened to Mickey O’Connor’s deep, velvet voice talk about creamy centers.

She swallowed and looked down at the artichoke petals piled neatly on the side of her plate. Her center certainly felt like it was melting, growing soft and wet just from the rasp of Mr. O’Connor’s voice. Why should a man already devilishly handsome also have a voice that could charm birds from the sky? It simply wasn’t fair. And, goodness! Surely he didn’t mean what his words conjured in her too heated mind? Silence took a hasty sip of red wine, casting about desperately for something—anything—to say.

“Did your mother name you Mickey?” she asked.

He blinked as if he were startled by the change of subject matter.

“I… I mean, well…” She inhaled, gathering her thoughts into a semblance of order. “It’s from Michael, isn’t it? Did she christen you Mickey or Michael?”

His mouth twitched as if he knew she was desperately trying to break the tension between them. “Well, now, I doubt very much that holy water ever touched me infant head, but me mam did name me Michael, sure enough.”

“It’s a lovely name, Michael.”

“Is it, now?” he asked skeptically.

She nodded, tearing apart a piece of bread. “Saint Michael is one of the archangels. He bears a sword and leads the army of God.”

“A militant fellow, then.”

She nodded. “In the Book of Revelations he battles the Devil and all his minions and they are thrown out from Heaven.”

Mickey’s lips pursed, his dark eyes sardonic. “Not so very like me.”

“I don’t know…” Silence frowned. “After all, Saint Michael must be very hard, very fierce. He’s a warrior who metes out God’s justice. He did defeat the Devil, after all. In some ways he must be not unlike the Devil.”

He chuckled.

Silence glanced up, horrified. “Is that blasphemy?”

He shrugged. “Ye ask the Devil to point out blasphemy?”

“I told you, you aren’t the Devil at all,” Silence muttered distractedly. “In fact, you may just be a very frightening angel.”

He threw back his head and laughed at her earnest statement, drawing surreptitious glances from his pirates.

He grinned at her when he’d calmed. “Don’t matter. I’m not the one to judge blasphemy.” He leaned back in his chair, cocking his head to study her. “Besides, ye know that given the chance I would’ve fought on the other side o’ yer Saint Michael.”

“Would you have?” she asked, serious despite his laughter. A week ago she wouldn’t have questioned his assertion that he was the devil. Now she wasn’t so certain. “Your mother must not have thought you so terrible. After all, she named you after a saint, not a devil.”

He frowned.

It was her turn to eye him. “Unless she was naming you after someone else? A relative, maybe? Perhaps your father?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Then who?”

“No one to me knowledge.” He looked away from her as if bored with the conversation, yet his fingers gripped the table tightly. “She mightn’t have had a reason.”

“Perhaps she named you with the hope that you would be a fierce protector like Saint Michael.”

He flinched. It was a small movement, hardly noticeable, but Silence felt as if she’d hit him. She reached out a hand to him before she could stop herself, laying it on his sleeve.

He stared down at her hand as if mesmerized by the sight.

“If that was why she named me,” he said low, “then she was sorely disappointed.”

“Michael,” she whispered, whether in apology or question, she did not know.

His Christian name was somehow terribly intimate upon her lips. It suited him much better than Mick or Mickey. An angel, both terrible and violent, but also with the possibility of redemption. Saint Michael.

His eyes narrowed and it was as if he’d pierced her with his gaze. “Don’t.” He closed his eyes, shuttering that dreadful look. “Don’t call me that.”

She withdrew her hand, but she wouldn’t back down. There was something important here. Something she very much needed to find out.

“Why not?” They might as well be alone. The rest of the dining room fell away and with it all the other people around them.

“Ye know why,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. His black eyelashes lay on his cheeks like soot on snow.

If they’d been alone she might’ve taken him into her arms.

“I know why,” she said softly, “but I have no intention of calling you anything else.”

He chuckled low, a dry, broken sound now in contrast to his earlier laughter. “O’ course ye won’t. Sweet Silence. I may be named for an archangel, but yer the one who shines with a clear, pure light.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

“Don’t ye?” He finally opened his eyes and they were haunted. “Didn’t ye lay down yer virtue for the husband ye loved? Haven’t ye agreed to live with the devil himself for a child ye found upon yer doorstep? Ye, Silence Hollingbrook, are more awe inspirin’ than any angel.”

She didn’t know where to look. It had never occurred to her that he might think her anything out of the ordinary. Her lips parted soundlessly and she stared into his eyes as if she would drown.

His gaze grew warm and the corner of his mouth quirked. “D’ye mean to eat that bread?”

Silence looked down and saw that she’d long ago crumbled the piece of bread to bits on her plate. “I—”

Mickey—Michael—snapped his fingers and the small boy hurried over with a tray of sliced meats. Michael took the tray from him. “Bring me the bread, as well.”

The boy skipped away.

“I can’t eat all that,” Silence protested even as Michael piled savory lamb onto her plate. The platter of boiled beef seemed to have disappeared.

“Ye’ve been eatin’ like a mouse while the child was ill,” he said, still transferring tidbits to her plate.

She sampled a bite of the lamb. It was so tender it nearly melted in her mouth. She ate it a bit guiltily. Somehow Michael’s lamb was much better than her own English boiled beef—even if it couldn’t possibly be as beneficial for one’s health.

Laughter from down the table made her look up. Bran had his head thrown back and was laughing. Fionnula was gazing at him and her entire face glowed with a look of love so intimate that Silence glanced away, embarrassed. She found Michael watching her.

Silence swallowed and reached for her wineglass, avoiding his eyes. They seemed to see too much behind her face. “Fionnula certainly adores Bran.”

“She wears her affection upon her sleeve,” he said, his voice strangely flat.

She glanced at him. “Bran is very young to be so much in your esteem, isn’t he?”

Michael shrugged. “Maybe, but the lad has been with me for more’n six years.”

“Really?” She glanced again at Bran and Fionnula. He didn’t seem much older than twenty. “How did you come to know him?”

Michael sat back, a sugared grape in his fingers. “Our Bran was runnin’ the streets wild. He and his crew—a ragtag troop o’ lads, most younger than himself. They made their way by pickin’ pockets, thievin’ from chandler shops and hawkers, and general mischief. One night he’d decided to hunt bigger game.”

Michael stopped to take a drink of wine. He carefully set his glass back on the table.

“Well?” Silence asked impatiently.

His mobile lips curved. “Our Bran decided to take a ship already marked by m’self.”

Silence inhaled. She didn’t know much about the details of how Michael made his living—didn’t want to know, truth be told—but she knew he must be a ruthless competitor. “What happened?”

“We came upon the ship jus’ after Bran and his boys had swarmed it. They were fightin’ the guards when we came over the gunwales. Me and me men made quick work o’ the guards, and then I found this lad, only half me height, mind, tryin’ to shove a dagger in me gut.”

Silence swallowed and glanced at Bran under her lashes. Any man, let alone a boy, was either very courageous or very foolhardy to challenge Mickey O’Connor.

“What did you do?”

Michael toyed with his nearly empty wineglass, a smile playing about his wide mouth. “Took the dagger away from him, that’s what. And when he lunged at me with his bare hands I grabbed him by the scruff o’ the neck and shook him. I might’ve simply tossed him into the Thames, but…”

He trailed off, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“But you didn’t,” Silence supplied. “Why not?”

He glanced at her and finished the last gulp of wine. “Truth be told, he reminded me a bit o’ m’self, once upon a time. A ragged boy, alone and fightin’ for everythin’, even his next meal.”

Silence looked at her hands. He’d said he’d had a mother—and perhaps even a father. Why had he been alone, then? Her stomach cramped thinking of him, a pretty boy, fighting for something to eat.

It was as if he heard her thoughts. “Ah, never pity me, Silence, m’love.”

She looked up and saw his black eyes, his sardonic mouth, and the haunted memories in his face.

He nodded, toasting her with his empty wineglass. “Whatever trials and tribulations I may’ve had, they were deserved. Most well deserved, mind.”

“MICKEY O’CONNOR’S THE one behind our problems with gettin’ grain,” Freddy said.

Charlie looked up slowly from his supper. “Is he now?”

The information wasn’t surprising. For the last week his grain suppliers had either been strangely reluctant to sell or had already been all sold out of their grain supplies.

Charlie grunted. “You’ll have to find me new suppliers then.”

Freddy looked unhappy at the news.

“What else have you heard?”

“There’re soldiers in St. Giles,” Freddy said gruffly.

“What of it?” Charlie said as he forked up a bite of beef. It dripped gravy as he brought it to his mouth. “Soldiers are everywhere in London.”

“ ’Tis said these have been sent to clean St. Giles o’ thieves and murderers and other crime.”

“Have they?” Charlie sat back and glanced at his man. Freddy as usual was avoiding looking at his face—his gaze was focused mostly on Charlie’s full plate of food. “That’s interesting. Who sent them?”

Freddy frowned, digging furrows into his brow, which did not help his appearance any. “No one knows. They’ve been ridin’ about in pairs, catchin’ up anyone seen loiterin’ about. ’Course the smarter ones went to ground as soon as the soldiers rode in. They get mostly the old women who sell gin and the like.”

Charlie grunted. “Still, if they’re after gin sellers they’re bound to run into my business.” He tapped his knife on the edge of his pewter plate, thinking. “Be best if we can point them in another direction. A direction we choose.”

Freddy nodded slowly. “Where?”

A sudden thought appeared, fully formed in Charlie’s brain. He took it and examined it, peering at it from all sides.

And then he nodded. “At Charming Mickey’s heart.”

“MO’,” MARY DARLING cried the next morning.

Silence obediently bounced the baby on her knees, chanting a song about a horsey. It was so good to see Mary pink-cheeked and well again! But it was also exhausting entertaining the baby in only one small room.

“Mo’!” Mary urged as soon as Silence paused in the bouncing game. “Mo’! Mo’! Mo’!”

“Oh, sweetheart, I think the horsey is quite tired out,” Silence said as she put Mary down.

Mary fretted and then began making her way along the stuffed chair Silence sat on. She was heading to the fireplace, knowing full well that she was forbidden the alluring delights of the fire.

Silence pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and cast about for a distraction. “Here, Mary. What do you think of this?” She opened her sewing kit on the floor.

The baby quickly dropped to her hands and knees and crawled over.

“Yer lettin’ her play with yer needles?” Fionnula asked doubtfully from the door.

Silence looked up gratefully. “Oh, thank goodness, you brought tea. I was running out of things to do with her.”

“I can see that,” the maid said as she set down the tea tray.

“Well, it was better than the fireplace,” Silence muttered, extracting Mary’s busy fingers from a small skein of mending thread.

The thread was hopelessly tangled. Silence stared at it as Fionnula set the baby down and gave her some toast and a small cup of milk.

“Mary’s just so bored here,” Silence murmured. She was bored as well, she realized. Silence had spent the last several months running a busy orphanage, work that kept her occupied from sunup to well past sundown. She simply wasn’t used anymore to sitting and doing nothing.

On that thought she looked at Fionnula hopefully. “Is Mr. O’Connor at home today, do you know?”

“Saw him goin’ into his room just now.” Fionnula nodded at the connecting door.

“Really?” Silence rose and crossed to the connecting door and knocked.

The door was opened almost at once.

Michael leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, a wicked smile playing about his sensuous lips. He was so very big this close—every time it surprised her and made her breathless. “Well, now, and when did ye decide to start knockin’ at me door?”

Silence fought to keep her face from flaming as she remembered the last time she’d peeked through Michael’s door.

She swallowed. “We’re bored.”

“Is that so?” Michael glanced down.

Silence followed his gaze and saw that Mary had crawled over to investigate. The baby grabbed a handful of her skirt and stood up. She kept one hand on Silence’s skirt and popped two fingers from the other into her mouth as she stared solemnly at Michael.

“She looks a rare treat,” Michael said softly, watching the toddler.

Silence smiled down at Mary. “She does indeed.”

She glanced up and her heart squeezed at the gentle look on Michael’s face.

As if she understood she was the subject of conversation, Mary lifted her arms—to Michael. “Up!”

Michael arched an eyebrow. “Mouthy little thing, ain’t she?”

But he bent and lifted the toddler.

Mary Darling looked so small in his arms. The pirate cradled her body against his chest, her face on a level with his.

Mary stared into his eyes and then took her fingers out of her mouth and poked him in the chin.

Silence caught her breath, but Michael merely laughed. “Bored, sweetin’? We’ll have to do somethin’ about that, won’t we?”

He turned and started back into his room.

“Where are you going?” Silence asked as she hurried to catch up.

“Always demandin’ answers, isn’t she?” Michael murmured to the baby.

Mary looked back over his shoulder. “Mamoo.”

“Aye, yer mamoo,” Michael drawled as he opened the door to the corridor. “A lovely lady, I must admit, but a worrier, too, wouldn’t ye agree?”

Mary had her fingers back in her mouth, listening to this blather very seriously, but she took out her fingers to point to Harry and Bert, standing guard in the corridor. “ ’Ert!”

For some reason Mary had taken a liking to the cantankerous man.

“Aye, Harry and ‘’Ert’ shall come with us, as well,” Michael said to her, nodding to the two men.

The guards looked at each other and then fell into step behind Silence.

She lifted her skirts to lengthen her stride—Michael’s long legs were eating up the corridor.

“Now, I always find a bit o’ fresh air quite invigoratin’,” Michael continued. “Mind, we can’t have ye out in the open—too many bad men about, see? But we do have a bit o’ fresh air at the back of the house.”

He came to a stairs and clattered down them, the trailing parade following. The stairs opened up into the kitchen and Archie the cook turned in surprise at their entrance.

But Mary Darling wasn’t paying attention to the cook. “Goggie!” she exclaimed, holding both hands out urgently to Lad, who’d been dozing by the fire.

“By all means,” Michael replied amicably, as if he and Mary were having a conversation. “Let’s bring the mutt with us, as well. He’s almost presentable now that he stinks o’ roses.”

The whole procession—Lad included—tromped into a small courtyard.

Silence looked around. The courtyard was paved excepting for a lone patch of dry earth in the middle. On all four sides it was bordered by tall brick buildings. Opposite the door to the kitchen was an ancient arched tunnel through the lower part of one of the buildings.

“Where does that lead?” Silence asked.

Michael glanced at the tunnel. “It lets out on an alley. No need to worry. There’s a gate on the other and two guards in the tunnel.”

Silence nodded, watching as Michael placed Mary down next to a wooden bench set against a wall. “Have you always had to live like this?”

“Like what?” he asked.

Mary was already making her way determinedly toward Lad.

“This.” Silence waved a hand about the courtyard. “With guards and high walls and constant vigilance?”

He straightened and looked at her. Bert and Harry had followed Mary like lumbering nursemaids, attempting to keep her from poking Lad in the eye. She and Michael were, for a moment, by themselves in a corner of the courtyard.

“No.” Michael turned his face up. It was near noon and the sun was straight overhead, shining down into the little courtyard. But in an hour or so, the tall walls on either side would shield the sunshine. Only in the middle of the day was the courtyard lit thus.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

He shrugged restlessly. “The more power a man has, the more enemies he takes on, as well, I’ve found.”

“Really?” She frowned down at the cobblestones beneath her feet. “Have you ever thought that it may not be worth it? Your stealing?”

He cast an ironic glance her way. “And will ye be reformin’ me now, me darlin’?”

She pursed her lips at his mockery, but lifted her chin to look him in the eye. “You have piles of riches—I’ve seen them.”

“A man may never have too many riches.” His mouth firmed irritably.

“Of course he may,” she said. “You have enough to feed and clothe and house yourself and your men, what more do you need?”

His eyes narrowed. “Easy for one who’s never been without to say.”

She paused at that. It was true that she’d never gone hungry. But Mickey O’Connor had riches stacked in his palace! “Surely you no longer need to steal?”

“I could become a fat farmer, d’ye mean?”

“No.” She couldn’t even picture him as a country squire, fat or otherwise. “But there must be some other work you could take up?”

“Such as?” he asked silkily. “Would ye make me a shipbuilder?”

Well, that was a ridiculous idea.

“I don’t know!” She planted her hands on her hips in exasperation. “But the life you lead is dangerous. Surely you realize this. It’s only a matter of time before one of your enemies finds you—or you’re brought before a magistrate for thievery. Why not leave this life while you can?”

“Worried about me, darlin’?” His words were flippant, but his look wasn’t. For a moment Silence thought she saw vulnerability deep in those black eyes. Then he looked away. “Ah, best not to worry for me, m’love. I’m a pirate and a pirate has but one end in this world.”

“What’s that?” she whispered, feeling dread.

A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Why, the end o’ a rope, what else?”

Silence shivered, though the sun’s rays were warm in the courtyard. She imagined him swinging from a hangman’s rope, his strong, lean body jerking in the throes of death. Something inside her couldn’t bear the thought. Michael O’Connor had once been her enemy. No one had ever hurt her as deeply as he had. What he’d done to her—to William and their marriage—could never be forgiven.

But that was before. Before she’d come to know him, before he’d come to know her, for that matter. She knew that he might be a very dangerous pirate at the present, but once upon a time he’d been only a boy, small and vulnerable and with no one to take care of him.

The fact was that some part of her would wither away should Michael O’Connor leave this world.

Silence wrapped her arms about herself. “That’s it, then? You’ll simply wait to be caught and hung?”

Michael cocked his head. “Oh, there’s no waitin’ about it, love. I’m livin’ a full and happy life, in case ye haven’t noticed.”

“Are you?” She watched as Harry threw a wooden ball he’d produced from somewhere on his person. Both Mary Darling and Lad started after the ball. “You have your men and your riches, but you have no family, do you? Is that all that you want out of life?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned to find him watching her intently.

Silence lifted her chin. “Well, do you?”

He shrugged. “ ’Tis well enough for many a man.”

“It seems very lonely to me.”

“Does it?” He stepped closer. “What about yerself, Silence, m’love? Ye talk about me family but what family d’ye have o’ yer own?”

She looked at him in astonishment. “What do you mean? I have quite a large family. My sisters, my brothers, and my nephews and nieces.”

Michael nodded. “Ye’ve brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. But ye don’t have a husband or children.”

Silence tilted her chin. “I have Mary Darling.”

“Is she enough?” He leaned over her until she could feel the heat from his body. “Someday she’ll grow up. She’ll find a man o’ her own and live apart from ye. Ye’ll be alone. Is that what ye want?”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she looked away. “I had a man—a dear, good husband.”

“And now ye do not.” There was no trace of compassion in his voice. “Will ye mourn him forever? Wear this dingy black until ye die yerself?”

He reached out and flicked the starched white collar of her gown.

She hunched a shoulder against him. He was too close, asking questions that made her too uncomfortable. “I loved William. You cannot understand it, I think, but he was my true love. The love of my life. I don’t hope to ever find another love such as he in this lifetime.”

She’d said the words so many times, the syllables were worn into her soul. She didn’t even have to think what they meant anymore. But were they still true? She shook her head in confusion. She didn’t want to be having this conversation with anyone, let alone Michael.

But his deep voice was relentless. “And without this true love ye’ll let yerself wither away, is that it, darlin’?”

“As I said, I don’t expect you to understand—”

“And I don’t,” he cut in. “Ye ask how I can live a life that I know will end with the hangman’s noose. Well, at least I am alive. Ye might as well have climbed inside yer husband’s coffin and let yerself be buried with his corpse.”

Her hand flashed out before she’d thought about it, the smack against his cheek loud in the little courtyard.

Silence had her eyes locked with Michael’s, her chest rising and falling swiftly, but she was aware that Bert and Harry had looked up. Even Mary and Lad had paused in their play.

Without taking his gaze from hers, Michael reached out and grasped her hand. He raised her hand to his lips and softly kissed the center of her palm.

He looked at her, her hand still at his lips. “Don’t take to yer grave afore yer time, Silence, m’love.”

Her heart was beating so fast that she was breathless. She could feel each exhale he made on her palm.

“He has no grave,” she whispered inanely. “He died at sea and his body lies there beneath the waves.”

“I know, love,” he said tenderly. “I know.”

Then the tears overflowed her eyes, there in the sunlight in the little courtyard. Silence squeaked, embarrassed and helpless, and felt him pull her against his chest.

“There, there, sweetin’,” he murmured into her hair.

“He loved me, he truly did,” she gasped.

“I know he did,” Michael said.

“And I loved him.”

“Mm-hmm.”

She raised her head, glaring angrily. “You don’t even believe in love. Why are you agreeing with me?”

He laughed.

“Because”—he leaned down and licked at the tears on her cheeks, his lips brushing softly against her sensitive skin as he spoke, “ye’ve bewitched and bespelled me, my sweet Silence, didn’t ye know? I’ll agree that the sky is pink, that the moon is made o’ marzipan and sugared raisins, and that mermaids swim the muddy waters o’ the Thames, if ye’ll only stop weepin’. Me chest breaks apart and gapes wide open when I see tears in yer pretty eyes. Me lungs, me liver, and me heart cannot stand to be thus exposed.”

She stopped breathing. She simply inhaled and stopped, looking at him in wonder. His lips were quirked in a mocking smile, but his eyes—his fathomless black eyes—seemed to hold a great pain as if his strong chest really had been split open.

HER EYES STILL swam with tears, blue-green and woebegone. Why the sight should pain him so Mick didn’t know. He’d seen men gutted and killed, watched starving women prostitute themselves, seen beggar children lay down in the gutter and die. He’d fought with tooth and nail to reach the place where he was now—where he didn’t worry over food or a roof over his head. He’d killed men and never thought about their faces again.

Yet the sight of Silence in tears nearly unmanned him.

He glanced away from her face uneasily. That way lies pain. “Come. I’ve somethin’ to show ye.”

He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen door.

“But Mary—” she protested.

He tilted his chin to where the toddler giggled as she pulled at Lad’s ears. “She’ll be fine with Bert and Harry to watch over her. We’ll be only a moment.”

She trailed after him, casting worried looks at the baby until they were inside. “Where are we going?”

“To me throne room.” He led her through back passages and stairs until they reached the echoing hall that he received visitors in.

Bob, guarding the door, looked curious as Mick approached with Silence, but the guard merely nodded.

“See that we’re not disturbed.” Mick drew open the heavy wooden doors.

Inside he strode quickly to a chest he’d had set beside his throne. He threw open the lid and drew out a shimmering blue silk gown.

“What is it?” Silence asked as if she’d never seen such a dress.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a dress. For ye.”

She backed a step, looking mulish. “I can’t wear that.”

Ah, now he had to be careful. He held up the dress, letting the light play on the gorgeous fabric. “Ye told me ye were bored. Wouldn’t ye like to get away from me palace?”

“Yes, but—”

“But,” he interrupted, “if ye wish to go out wi’ me, ye must wear this. The dress yer wearin’ now won’t do.”

She bit her lip, eyeing the iridescent blue silk.

“It was given to me,” he lied, “by a sea captain wantin’ me to do him a favor. I haven’t a use for it m’self.”

He held the dress against his chest, drawing a reluctant smile from her. In fact, like a besotted lover, he’d spent half a day searching for a ready-made gown especially for her. That information, however, was unlikely to make her want to take the gown. He knew instinctively that accepting such a costly gift—such an elegant gift—from him would outrage her puritanical morals.

“Or would ye rather be spendin’ another evenin’ by the fire in yer rooms?” he asked casually. His fingers trailed over the shining skirts.

Her eyes darted to his face. He could see she was wavering. “Where do you intend to take me?”

He shook his head. “It’s to be a surprise.”

Her brows knit and her lips parted as if to protest.

“But it’s respectable,” he hastily added. “I promise.”

He held his breath, waiting to hear her answer. Wanting her to accept.

“I haven’t anything else to wear with such a fine gown.” She blushed at even the oblique mention of underclothes.

He fought down a grin, trying to look innocent instead. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll find the items ye need in the bottom o’ that there trunk.”

“But—”

He was already striding to the throne room doors. She’d decided when she asked about things to wear with the dress. If he hesitated, she’d have time to rethink her decision.

Mick pulled open the doors and spoke to Bob. “Send two lads here to take a chest to Mrs. Hollingbrook’s room.”

Bob nodded. “Right ye are.” He scurried off down the corridor.

Mick turned back to Silence. She was still standing by the chest, but she was looking about the room as well. “Why keep so many of your souvenirs in one room? Aren’t you afraid of thieves?”

Mick smiled. “Ye think I’d be robbed in me own home?”

Pink tinted her cheeks. “No, of course not. But your men might be tempted.”

“Pay them well, I do,” Mick said simply. “Better, mind, than they could get anywhere else in London. And if they’re still tempted, well… believe it or not, m’love, but I’ve somethin’ o’ a reputation amongst violent men.”

She shivered and turned away, peering at a marble cherub. “I know.”

He tilted his head, watching her. His violence upset her, he knew, but since he couldn’t change who he was, he dismissed it from his mind.

“As to why I pile me goods in this one room”—he shrugged—“ye yerself told me it makes a certain impression.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is that the only reason for all your treasure? To impress others?”

He watched her for a moment, and then decided he could tell her. “Ye know o’ me life as a lad. About beggin’ for me supper.”

She nodded hesitantly.

He grimaced and looked around the room at his booty. “Well, when I made me first haul I swore then and there that I wouldn’t ever do that again.”

Her eyes widened. “But… that was long ago. You’ve become a powerful man since then—a rich man.”

“Can a man ever be rich enough?” he asked softly. “Powerful enough?”

“Oh, Michael.”

Her eyes had gone wide, her sweet lips parted, and her face was filled with compassion—for him.

That look went straight through him. He took a step nearer, his muscles tensing, his hand lifting, reaching for her.

Just then two of his men clattered into the throne room.

Mick bit back a curse and pointed to the trunk. “Bring it to her rooms.” He glanced back at Silence, still unmoving by the cherub. “Seven o’ the clock tonight, mind now. Be ready for me.”

And he turned and strode from the room, wondering if he was going to survive courting a chaste widow.