Scandalous Desires

Chapter Fifteen

Silence woke to the feel of a man’s body around her. It was such a nice luxury that she sighed in pleasure. His broad shoulders cradled hers, warming her all the way through. The soles of her feet were against his calves and she flexed her toes, feeling the rough hair on his legs.

Only then, with that small movement, did she realize that he still lay within her. Silence froze, her eyes wide in shock. She’d slept linked with Michael. Even now she could feel the twitch of his penis within her depths. The sensation was utterly decadent.

Utterly wonderful.

In one night she’d shared more with Michael than she’d ever had with William. It was more than the fact that Michael was a slow, thorough lover. He’d listened to her weep without male embarrassment. Had stroked her and comforted her. The thought gave her hope. If he was able to listen to her tears and disappointment, then surely if they argued, if they disagreed, he’d talk about it with her—not turn aside as William had. And if Michael was able to talk to her…

Well. Then they might have a future together.

Always assuming, of course, that he wanted a future with her. Silence frowned at the thought. He’d not mentioned marriage, or indeed even making her his mistress. Did he have any plans for her? Or was he—

Michael’s breathing had been sonorous, but she realized suddenly that it had lightened. She stilled, suddenly cautious. What must he think of her tears last night? Surely he wasn’t used to such things? Her overabundance of emotion was gauche, she knew, but it was something she could do little to change. She’d lived so long with the fantasy of a perfect love with William, that putting it aside was a hard thing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked, his voice blurred with sleep.

“For weeping,” she said softly. “I know it must have irritated you, it’s just that—”

“I wasn’t irritated,” he said, his breath whispering against the back of her neck. “Never apologize for what we two do here.”

“But you must not want a weepy woman in your bed.”

He grunted and stirred, withdrawing from her. She only had a moment to be disappointed and then he flipped her to her back and rose over her, powerful and male. He casually parted her legs with his knees and thrust into her again, hot and hard.

She gasped at the swift invasion, the lovely feeling, and then his face was next to hers, his big palms cradling her cheeks.

“What I want,” he drawled, “is ye. Nothin’ else.”

She opened her lips to ask what exactly he meant by that, but his mouth covered hers, and all thought fled her mind.

He kissed her leisurely then rose, bracing his upper half on his arms and thrust into her. This position was an old one, a familiar one, though not with him. Somehow with Michael she felt much more vulnerable. More intimate. He watched her face as he inserted and withdrew himself, completely in control, arrogant in his dominant manhood.

“Yer mine now,” he whispered, his eyelids at half-mast. “D’ye understand, Silence, m’love?”

She didn’t, not entirely. She wanted to ask him to tell her more, to explain exactly what he meant by “mine” and if he envisioned it lasting for a week or the rest of their lives. She wanted details and explanations, but he was moving on her—moving in her—in the most wondrous way and she simply couldn’t form the words.

So instead she stretched her arms above her head, reveling in the heavy thrust of his hips. Her breasts jiggled with the movement and his gaze lowered to stare at her bosom.

“I’ve wanted to see these forever,” he murmured, and hooking his fingers into the neckline of her chemise, tore the garment from her.

She gasped, his casual violence somehow terribly erotic.

“Aye,” he growled.

He lowered his head and tongued her quivering nipple, his hips still moving rhythmically.

She felt a restless rising, a desperate yearning for something that might not be entirely physical. This lovemaking was wonderful, but it was not love. Was it enough? If he couldn’t ever find it in himself to love her, would she be content?

She pushed aside the thought and dug her fingers into his hair, sliding so silkily over his shoulders. Her touch seemed to spur him on. Suddenly he was pounding into her, his thrusts fast and sure. She wanted to raise his head, to look him in the eye and see if there might be something driving him on beside lust.

But her own ecstasy caught her and threw her high. She closed her eyes, gasping, feeling as if she were the recipient of some kind of pagan offering. She spread her legs wide, her toes pointed, and accepted everything he had to give her.

He groaned against her breast, his big body suddenly stiffening as the spasm took him. She dropped her hands to his shoulders and felt the ripple as his muscles tightened.

When she opened her eyes the very air seemed golden, crisp with promise.

For a moment he lay heavy upon her.

Then he rolled aside and propped himself on his elbow. Michael’s beard blued his jaw and his eyes were still lazy from their lovemaking as he watched her with tenderness. Was that love in his eyes? Or something close enough? But she felt too shy to ask him. She felt shy looking at him. He was so wantonly seductive it made her self-conscious. Surely her hair was mussed from sleeping, her face puffy from crying the night before. She drew the coverlet over her breasts.

A corner of his mouth curled at her action, making him even more sensuously handsome. “Bittner usually readies a bath for me in the mornin’—he knows me routine. Would ye like me to have one brought to yer rooms for ye?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she said shyly. A bath was a rare luxury, especially this early in the morning.

His half smile turned to a grin at her enthusiastic reply. He leaned down and kissed her—hard and thoroughly.

A knock came at the outer door.

Silence squeaked, embarrassed. “The servants—”

Michael shook his head, rising from the bed. “The servants know better than to disturb me—unless it’s important.”

He crossed to the door and cracked it without bothering to dress.

Silence couldn’t see who was outside the door, but she could hear his voice.

“A word, Mick,” Harry said.

And somehow Silence knew their imperfect idyll was shattered.

“ ’E BOLTED LAST night near midnight,” Harry said as he matched his stride to Mick’s. The two men were headed in the direction of the small stable behind the house. “We followed ’im like ye instructed, but we ’ad no notion o’ where ’e was bound until we fetched up ’ere this mornin’. Didn’t think ye’d want ’im showin’ up all unannounced, so I put a ’and on ’im and came for ye.”

Mick could feel his muscles tensing, his stride lengthening as he neared the one who had betrayed him. “Ye did well.”

They went out through the kitchens, ignoring the startled squeak of a single scullery maid bent over a mountain of dishes. Outside the day was gray as if the skies reflected this grim business. The stable was across a cobblestone yard and their boots rang on the stones. Inside the stable one of the carriage horses whickered in greeting. Bran was standing in an empty stall with Bert watching him narrow-eyed.

Mick looked at his former lieutenant. Bran no longer could be mistaken for a boy. Several days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw. His face had new lines about his mouth and his eyes looked sunken. Bran glanced at him and then away again as if too ashamed to meet Mick’s eyes.

“Wait for me outside,” Mick said to Bert and Harry without taking his eyes from Bran’s face.

The two men left.

Mick took one giant stride forward and hit Bran in the jaw, putting all the force of his shoulder—and his pain—into the blow.

Bran staggered, struck the back of the stall and abruptly sat.

“Why?” Mick rasped.

Bran had his hand to his face. A blow like that could break a man’s jaw, make it impossible to properly eat or talk ever again.

Mick didn’t care. “I brought ye up from the streets, boy. Took ye into me own home, fed ye me food, put clothes on yer back. And this is how ye repay me? By betrayin’ me to me enemy? By lettin’ his men into me house to kill an innocent lass?”

Bran licked at the blood seeping from a split on his lip. “I didn’t know he’d kill Fionnula.” His voice cracked on her name.

Mick shook his head. “What did ye think he’d do?”

Bran shrugged, glancing about the stall vaguely. “Take you down.”

“Ye wanted me crew.”

Bran looked at him finally and Mick was surprised to see defiance still in his eyes. “You told me, over and over again, about how you’d made your way. About how you’d taken down the leader of that pirate crew when you were merely a boy. What did you expect from me but that I would do the same?”

Mick squatted on his haunches, feeling weary to his soul. “I expected loyalty.”

“Loyalty?” Bran shook his head and then winced at the movement. “You told me never to trust anyone. That any man who does so is a fool. You taught me that no one would champion me but me. That I must look out for myself and only myself. I could recite your lessons in my sleep. Not once did you mention loyalty, but now you expect it from me?”

“Aye!” Mick remembered those offhand remarks, the lessons given casually as they’d raided ships and analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of their men and of their enemies. But he’d considered Bran one of his own—his lieutenant, damn it. His friend. How could Bran have taken his words and turned them against him? “I expected loyalty from ye and every man under me command.”

“Under your command, exactly,” Bran said. “I had no way of bettering myself. I wanted to be like you.”

“Ye were like me,” Mick roared. “I took ye into me confidence, made ye a man. What the fuck were ye thinkin’, Bran?”

“I was thinking of freedom!” Bran shouted. “You kept us under your thumb, made us live in your house, eat at your table. You dealt out the spoils as you saw fit and consulted no one else. You never listened to my suggestions or plans. I was nothing but a lackey to you when what I wanted to be was your equal.”

Mick stared. He’d spent years never knowing where his next meal would come from. He’d made the palace into a fortress, not only to guard his wealth, but to guard his men. And now Bran threw back his generosity in his face?

Mick turned his head away in disgust and stood. “Try and put the blame for yer betrayal on me, but it won’t work. Fionnula is dead because o’ ye and ye alone.”

“Oh, God.” Bran squeezed shut his eyes, moaning so low Mick had to lean close to hear the words. “Oh, God, don’t you think I know that? Her pretty face was burned off. I keep seeing her in my dreams. I can’t sleep at night.”

Mick grunted. “How did ye find me house?”

Bran shook his head. “I snuck a look in Pepper’s book.”

“And have ye told the Vicar where I am?” Mick asked, low and deadly.

“No!”

“Why come here?”

Bran opened his eyes, the tears stark upon his face. “I thought to warn you about the Vicar. He wants Mrs. Hollingbrook. He talks of nothing else now.”

Mick laughed though he felt no mirth. “And don’t ye think I know that well enough? Why did ye really come, Bran?”

“I’m sorry, Mick,” Bran whispered. “I didn’t know what he was like. If you’d told me…”

“What?” Mick sighed. “If I’d told ye he was mad ye wouldn’t have betrayed me to me own father?”

Bran stared, the color leeching from his face. “Your father? The Vicar is your father?”

“Aye.” Mick inclined his head, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Come full circle, hasn’t it? Betrayed by me father, and betrayed to me father. The old man’s probably right pleased.”

“Mick—”

Mick threw out a hand, stopping the other man’s words. “Get out o’ me sight afore I kill ye.”

Bran rose wearily. “Will you forgive me, Mick?”

His words cut a cord within Mick, letting loose the grief within. Mick drew his dagger and before Bran could move he had the knife at his throat.

Bran froze as a drop of blood welled under the dagger.

Mick looked into the face of the boy he’d held dear as a friend. “I can’t forgive ye, Bran, no. Ye banished that hope the moment ye put Silence and Mary Darlin’ in danger. They might’ve died because o’ yer stupidity. For that, for puttin’ them at risk, I should slit yer throat here and now and throw yer rotten corpse in the river.”

For a moment he stood, the knife against Bran’s neck, staring into the other man’s light blue eyes. They’d once laughed together, drunk brandy, and planned raids. Bran had been as close to him as a brother… or a son.

It could’ve been Silence with that ruined face.

Abruptly Mick swung away, putting the length of the stall between him and Bran as he strode to the stall door.

“Harry!” he roared.

The guard appeared a second later. He glanced in the stall and blinked, looking confused to see Bran still alive.

Well, and hadn’t Mick killed for far less than Bran had done to him? “Take him.” Mick jerked his head back at Bran.

“Take ’im?” Harry asked cautiously.

Mick winced. He wouldn’t put the burden of Bran’s death on Harry, either. No, Bran was his own responsibility and he’d see him out of England himself. He sighed and stretched his neck. “Take him to the cellar and lock him in well. I’ll be bringin’ him back to London and a ship bound for a distant shore tonight.”

The relief was plain to see on Harry’s face, but it was fleeting. When the big man turned to Bran his expression was as cold as Mick had ever seen it.

“Come on, then.” Harry took a firm hold of Bran’s arm and marched him from the barn.

Bran cast one helpless look over his shoulder, but Mick ignored it. He’d made up his mind.

Mick waited, listening to the retreating footsteps, then stayed many minutes longer, trying to get his anger under control. He didn’t want her to see him this way. She wouldn’t understand. She came from a foreign land where people could forgive one another, where it wasn’t weakness to let live the boy you’d taught to be a man.

Mick threw back his head and stared blindly at the dusty rafters of the stable. He couldn’t change who he was. He’d been bred from the loins of a demon in human form and there was only so much humanity in him.

“Michael?”

Her voice was soft and sweet in the stable’s still air. For a moment he wanted to hide. To not let the disease of his soul touch her. He felt filthy with sin.

But she was ever relentless was his Silence. She poked her head around the stall door. “There you are.”

He straightened from the wall. “Aye, here I am.”

She hesitated by the doorway as if aware of the blackness in his soul. Perhaps the truly good had a sort of inner compass that swiveled around when in the presence of evil.

“What did Harry come to say?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing ye need worry about.”

He started for the stall door, but she didn’t move aside. Instead she hugged her arms across her chest and looked at him with those damned beautiful eyes. “What if I want to worry about it? What if I want to share your troubles?”

He stared at her nonplussed and couldn’t help thinking that he’d never had this sort of problem with any of the whores he’d taken to bed. He wanted to brush past her and leave her and her damned questions, but he had a feeling in his gut that to do so would somehow be an act not easily mended.

Mick sighed. “Harry brought Bran to see me.”

She stood immoveable and simply raised her eyebrows.

“Damn ye,” he hissed, taking her by her slim shoulders. “Why can’t ye leave it alone? ’Tis a man’s business and none o’ yer own.”

“I think it is,” she replied, bravely tilting her face to look him in the eye, stubborn thing. “I’ve given you my body and more. I think in return you can give me some small confidence.”

“It that what this is? A test?” He felt the anger rise in him again, seeking a victim even if she might be innocent of any outrage against him.

“Perhaps it is,” she said slowly. “I need to know that I’m more to you than a woman in your bed, Michael.”

“Ye know full well yer more than that,” he growled in outrage. “What d’ye want from me?”

“Truth,” she whispered, powerful in her softness. “Honesty. Friendship. And perhaps love.”

The words sent icy fear through his belly. He could storm a ship, could knife a man, could lead a gang of near-feral pirates, but the things she asked of him were impossible for him to do. He was the son of Charlie Grady, a man who’d never felt compassion, let alone love in his entire life. What softness Mick had had in him had been burned away sixteen years ago as surely as Charlie Grady’s face had melted. He’d had to armor himself in layers of granite to survive, to fight to where he was now in the world. And she? She wanted him to simply strip his armor away—let it fall and stand naked and vulnerable in the sunlight.

Her gaze was clear and direct and too terrible for words as she waited for something from him—something he wasn’t sure he had in him.

“Damn ye,” he hissed again, and brought his mouth down on hers.

He’d been bedding women since the age of fourteen. He knew well their sweet parts, their soft sighs. This he could do. She would have to learn to be content with it. He knew no other way to keep her.

MICHAEL’S KISS WAS overpowering. Silence struggled to remember that he’d not answered her questions. But her body had become attuned to his mastery overnight it seemed. She found herself curving toward him, opening her mouth, running her hands through his lovely hair. Already she was quickening, anticipating whatever he might want to do to her.

But he hadn’t told her what Bran had come for. He’d refused to share that information and more importantly some small part of his everyday life. If she was to be more to him than merely a body in his bed, he must learn to open himself, he must—

Michael began gathering her skirts in great handfuls and her thoughts scattered.

She tore her mouth away. “Oh! What if someone comes?”

“Hush,” he murmured, his voice lowered to a deep rasp. “No one will interrupt.”

He’d bared her legs now and was backing her into the stall wall. She leaned there and watched, dazed, as he dropped to his knees.

“Michael!”

He ignored her urgent hiss. “Hold yer skirts.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” She obediently took the material in her hands even as she craned her neck to watch for intruders. What if Harry came back? Or Bran? Did Michael keep a groom?

He laid both hands on her now, stroking up over her calves, smoothing over her knees, and delicately tracing her thighs.

She shivered. What did he intend to do? She could feel heat gathering at the apex of her thighs and if he reached up there—

She squeaked as he bent to kiss the inside of her thigh.

“Raise yer skirts higher, love,” he whispered.

She groaned under her breath. If she pulled up her skirts any farther, her most intimate parts would be exposed. It was one thing to frolic nude in the dark, quite another to do so in the light of day.

But his voice was like liquid sin, dark and dangerously seductive. She did his bidding, her fingers trembling with want, and felt the cool air caress the juncture of her thighs.

“That’s it,” he said approvingly. “Hold it there, love, and spread yer thighs jus’ a wee bit wider.”

She swallowed and did as he bid.

“That’s me girl.” He whispered against her skin, his hot breath making her shiver.

His mouth trailed up beside her mound, licking and kissing, but very leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. She tilted back her head, impatient, nervous, on edge from suspense. He drew closer to her center and tongued the crease next to her thigh.

Silence bit her lip, trying to make no noise—surely they would be discovered if she did.

She felt him run his thumbs through her maidenhair and down to the plump outer lips of her sex. He thumbed them apart, exposing her wet inner folds.

“Michael!” she whispered, as loud as she dared.

But he ignored her. He blew on her wet curls and she shivered—more from the sensation than the chill. Then he leaned forward and touched his hot tongue to her center.

She jumped at the contact, nearly hitting her head against the boards of the stall. Oh, dear Lord! “What are you doing?”

He chuckled low and restrained her quivering body with his hands, then he drew his tongue through her folds, slow and thorough, the most intimate contact she’d ever experienced. His tongue was wet and hot and felt indescribable.

He didn’t seem to care that they were in an open stable, that she was jerking in reaction from each touch, that what he did to her must be some kind of wicked indecency. Michael O’Connor didn’t care at all. He just kept licking and tonguing her until she thought she might go mad with the intensity of the feelings he was provoking in her. Each swipe of his tongue burned exquisitely on her nerve endings. Each deep kiss drove her ever nearer to an edge. She was shaking, panting, damp with her own need, and he simply would not stop.

She found herself spreading her knees wider, tilting her hips to give him better access. She might very well expire from this torture, but she would die in bliss. Her head was back against the old stable wall, and she watched the rafters overhead blindly, thinking that she’d never be able to enter a stable again without blushing.

And then he took her little knot of flesh between his lips and suckled it as deeply as he had her nipples this morning. Dear God, she could not hold back. She tumbled over the precipice, sweetly unaware, joyously free. Her back arched, her legs tightened, and she had to stuff a hand in her mouth to keep from screaming.

She was still trembling when he stood and took her into his arms. She rested there grateful and limp, for she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own feet after her ravishment. But when she made to let her skirts fall he placed his palm possessively on her mound.

“D’ye like that, darlin’?” he drawled.

“You know I did.” Her tongue felt thick and her words were slow. “But you did it to distract me.”

He pulled back and looked her in the face, his own wary. “Ye never give up, do ye?”

“Won’t you tell me, Michael?”

He shook his head, looking away and curled his fingers into her cleft, sensitive now from her peak, and gently stroked.

She moaned, clutching at his coat.

His breathing had quickened as he felt her dampness. “Yer so wet, so hot and swollen.”

He flicked a finger across her bud and her hips jerked. “Michael—”

“I had meant this only for ye. I had meant to try and play the gentleman, but it seems I cannot.” His hand moved away from her and began working at the fall of his breeches. “I mus’ have ye.”

She watched him from half-closed eyes. She should protest, should tell him they must go inside and talk about why he’d looked so desolate after meeting Bran, but she found she couldn’t.

She simply couldn’t deny him when he needed her.

He drew himself out and her gaze dropped. He was fully erect, the veins standing out around the stem of his penis, the head ruddy and round.

“Come here,” he said, and took one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist.

This brought his hips close to hers and she felt him rubbing against her—just a bit too high.

She moaned in frustration.

“Hush, darlin’,” he murmured. “I’ll make it all better, I promise. Jus’…” He caught her other leg and she found herself braced against the wall, both of her legs wrapped about his waist now.

He had his hands on her bottom and was holding her full weight. She felt quite safe, but more importantly, his penis was now at the right height.

“Put me where ye need me, sweetheart,” he whispered.

She reached between them and grasped him, conscious of his muttered curse as she did so. She couldn’t help a quick stroke up and down. He was so hard, so beautiful.

“Silence…,” he warned.

She couldn’t wait any longer. She put him at her entrance, biting her lip at his heavy heat. It felt so good—so right. For a moment she stilled. Would she ever be able to recover from this height if he walked away from her someday? She felt as if she were giving a part of herself. Something that could never be taken back again.

He twisted and shoved and began to breach her and she looked up as he did.

Michael—her Michael—was watching her, his nostrils flared, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

She held his fierce gaze as she reached up and traced his cheek. “Make love to me.”

He expelled his breath in a gust as he pulled out of her nearly all the way and then slammed back in. His pace was fast, nearly frantic and she held onto his shoulders and fought to keep from wailing.

Oh, God, he was so powerful! She watched him. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, his lips curled back with his exertion. She wanted to kiss him, to embrace him and tell him he was everything to her, but all she could do was hold on and try not to fall apart when the explosion came.

For it was fierce—as fierce as he. A burning, ripping tide of pleasure nearly as violent as it was wonderful. She felt as if her world was tossed up in the air and came down completely re-pieced. This was earth-shattering.

This was love.

She gasped at the realization and watched as it took him, as well. His head arched back and he shouted as he came, his body jerking against hers. He was magnificent, he awed her, but she felt a pang of melancholy. What did this act mean to him—if it meant anything at all?

He laid his head against her shoulder, gasping as he caught his breath, and at first she didn’t hear him.

Then the words rang too clear. “He betrayed me, m’love. Bran betrayed me.”