Scandalous Desires

Chapter Sixteen

“We took out four o’ the Vicar’s stills in Whitechapel,” Harry said to Mick late that afternoon. “And we toppled one o’ ’is wagons fair full o’ gin barrels.”

Bert, lounging against the wall, grunted. “That were a pretty sight to see. Gin spillin’ everywhere and poor sods runnin’ to lap it up out o’ the channel in the middle o’ the street afore the soldiers came to drive them away.”

Mick winced. He’d never had any sympathy for those who made and sold gin, but the thought of gin drinkers actually trying to drink spilled gin out of a foul channel was grotesque. “What soldiers?”

Harry scratched his head. “There’ve been soldiers patrollin’ St. Giles, like, in the last few weeks.”

Mick frowned. Soldiers didn’t just turn up out of the blue. Someone ordered them. Someone sent them. “Who commands them?”

“Captain Trevillion,” Bert said.

“And who gives him his orders?”

“That we ’aven’t found out,” Harry admitted. “No one seems to know. But Trevillion’s a right prick. Strict about arrestin’ any gin sellers ’e finds, though they be mostly old bawds.”

Mick snorted. “The Vicar must not like that.”

Harry chuckled. “Naw, ’e don’t, and that’s a fact. ’Is men ’ave been arrested, as well.”

Mick leaned back in his chair, considering. The Vicar might be feeling harried by this Trevillion, but he’d dealt with soldiers before—most often by bribing them. They wouldn’t stop him for long.

He let the chair legs thump down. “Ye’ve done well, lads. But I’ve one more job for ye and it’s an important one.” Mick looked both men in the eye. “I need ye to guard Mrs. Hollingbrook and Mary—with yer lives.”

Harry and Bert exchanged cautious glances.

“O’ course,” Harry said. “But where will ye be, Mick?”

Mick set his jaw and said quietly, “I’m goin’ to London to put Bran on a ship to the farthest corner o’ the globe. And then I’m goin’ to kill the Vicar.”

Bert’s hairy eyebrows drew together. “Can’t ye send someone else to do the deed?”

“No, this is somethin’ that must be done properly,” Mick said grimly. “I’ll see to it m’self.”

Harry licked his lips nervously. “Why?”

“Bran said that the Vicar won’t stop until he kills Mrs. Hollingbrook or me Mary Darlin’, and I believe him.”

Bert hawked as if to spit and then glanced about the orderly study and thought better of it. “ ’E was a fuckin’ traitor was Bran. Can ye trust anythin’ ’e says now? Per’aps it’s some type o’ trap.”

Mick studied the papers on his desk without seeing them. Bran had been pale and sweaty—sick with remorse, if Mick was any judge. “He betrayed us all, aye, but in this, I believe, he spoke the truth. He has no love for the Vicar now, I’m thinkin’. Fionnula died by the man’s order, mind.”

Both Harry and Bert looked troubled at that reminder.

But it was Harry who spoke for both of them. “Ye can count on us, Mick.”

“Good,” Mick said quietly, “because I’m trustin’ me most precious possessions to ye.”

“Right ye are, then,” Harry said.

“They’re upstairs,” Mick said, “in the nursery. I don’t want ye to let them out o’ yer sight once I’ve gone, d’ye understand? I’ll leave tonight after supper.”

The big man nodded and stumped out, followed by Bert.

Mick sighed and studied the papers in front of him. With Bran gone and both Harry and Bert occupied guarding his lasses, getting into the Vicar’s house was going to be a delicate matter. He leaned back in his chair to think.

By the time Mick left the study it was evening and he had a plan that should prove effective. But he was still mulling over the problem of a lack of men he could truly trust when he entered the dining room.

Silence was already seated and for a moment all thoughts of his raid disappeared. He remembered her insistence that he tell her about Bran, her worried concern when she heard that he’d been betrayed. She soothed his soul, this woman.

She wore a light green dress he’d had made for her, and the sight brought him a deep satisfaction. The dress was more modest than he would’ve liked—she’d wrapped a lace fichu over her shoulders and tucked it into the low neckline—but he’d provided it for her and she’d worn it. His eyes narrowed, studying the pretty picture she made sitting at his table. He’d have to order more gowns. Several morning dresses and at least one more elegant gown she could wear to the opera.

She smiled suddenly, the sight bringing a rush of warmth to his heart. “Why are you looking at me like that? Should I be nervous?”

He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “I’m thinkin’ on the gowns I’ll have made for ye.”

The smile remained on her face, but her eyes somehow looked sad. “Are you? Then you think I’ll be living with you for some time?”

He froze in the act of lifting his wineglass. “D’ye have any doubt?”

She shrugged. “We haven’t discussed the matter and I don’t know your mind. You are an extremely hard man to read, Mr. Rivers.”

He took a sip of wine while he considered her words. She hadn’t said she was against living with him, simply that she hadn’t known his mind.

“I do wish ye to stay,” he said slowly, setting his glass down. “I can give ye many fine gowns—rooms full, if it’s yer wish.”

“That’s quite generous of you,” she said in a gentle voice.

He looked at her sharply. There seemed to be some subtext of this conversation that he was missing. “Ye can live here wi’ little Mary Darlin’ and do as ye wish with yer days. I’ll buy ye a carriage and there’s the garden to tend.”

“How kind.”

His mouth tightened. Pushing. She was always pushing him. From this afternoon’s argument over Bran to this now. He’d already let her in, already offered her his house and himself. “What more do ye want? It’s more than yer husband provided for ye, ye must admit.”

“Yes,” she said coolly, “but William married me.”

His head reared back as if she’d struck him in the face. He started to say something more, but Mrs. Bittner and the maids entered at that moment with their dinner.

He waited until the servants left, thinking hard on his reply.

When the door at last shut, he said, “I do not wish to quarrel wi’ ye on the memory o’ yer husband. I know he meant much to ye.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“If ye wish for somethin’ more from me,” he said carefully, “books or clothin’ or even a lady’s maid, ye have but to ask. I’ll fulfill yer every wish to the best o’ me ability.”

There was no mistaking the sadness in her eyes now. “Yes, I know that, Michael.”

“Ye’ll be the mistress o’ Windward House. I’ll place it in yer hands to do wi’ as ye like.” He felt a rising panic, a desperation that he’d never encountered before. “I’ll come to see ye as often as I’m able, perhaps three or four days o’ the week.”

She set her fork down very carefully. “You do not intend to live here permanently?”

“Ye know that’s impossible.” His jaw flexed. “Me business is in the city.”

“You mean the business of pirating.”

He stared, confused and angry. “Yes.”

“You will continue to rob people for your living,” she said. Her face was so still it might’ve been made from carved marble, but her sweet hazel eyes seemed to burn.

Burn like his mam’s. He couldn’t give her what she needed. Couldn’t prove himself worthy.

He lifted his head proudly. He’d not simper and whine for something she wouldn’t give. “Aye, I’m a pirate. I’ve never hidden the fact.”

“No, you’ve never hidden your sins, have you, Michael?” Her lips were thinned, her face strained. “I had hoped, though, that now with Mary Darling and myself in your life, you might consider retiring. For us. For me.”

“Haven’t I changed enough for ye?” He laughed, short and hard. “Where d’ye think the money comes from to pay for this house, the food we eat, the clothes upon yer back? From piratin’!”

“But I don’t need your money, Michael.” She shrugged and looked around his fine dining room. “It’s very nice, but it’s not necessary.”

“Me riches might not be necessary for ye, but ’tis for me,” he said impatiently. “I’ve lived in the gutter, mind, and I won’t go back there, not even for ye.”

“But there’s no threat that you’ll go back to the gutter,” she said and finally her voice rose. “I’ve seen your throne room. You could live like a king off the treasures in there. You could live off your shipbuilding business.”

“No,” he was already shaking his head, the specter of his starving childhood flapping tattered wings before his eyes. Even with his shipbuilding business there was not enough money. There was never enough money. “No, ye don’t understand. Ye can’t understand. The money—me piratin’—is all that I am. ’Tis me power. I can’t simply give it up.”

“Why not? Your pirating is based on robbing people like my husband!” she shouted, rising from the table. “Have you any idea the suffering you inflict on innocents?”

He laughed. “Most are far from innocent, no matter your pretty illusions.”

She braced her arms on the table, leaning over it toward him. “William was innocent, I was innocent. William would’ve gone to prison had I not come to you. Don’t pretend that what you do is without victims, for I know otherwise. You hurt us, Michael, hurt us badly. I cannot live with a man who chooses to inflict harm on others for his business.”

He stared at her, so passionate, so angry. He wanted to bend her over the table and settle this argument in the most basic way a man can with a woman.

Instead he inhaled. “I’m sorry.”

She bowed her head as if to steady her emotions.

“What d’ye want me to do?” he asked, controlling his voice with difficulty.

Her head rose and she looked him in the eye, his brave Silence. “Become the man I know you can be. Be a father to Mary. Be a husband to me.”

“Ye’ll cut me bollocks off, will ye?” he asked softly. “Make me half a man, bent to your will? Have me sippin’ tea with me pinky in the air?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t care if you ever drink tea, pinky or not. I want you to do something far simpler. Far easier. Just stop. Please, please stop pirating, Michael. For me. We could live here together. Be married and have a family. Don’t you see? Everything is within our grasp. All you have to do is choose. Choose me.”

His chest grew cold. It might seem easy to her, but his money—his pirating—was the only thing he had to guard himself against want. Against starvation. Pirating had saved him when he was abandoned, fed him when he’d had no food, given him a life and a future when his had been destroyed. His mother might abandon him, Bran might betray him, even Silence might someday leave him, but at least he still had pirating. At least he had the money.

His money was his strength. Not even for this woman would he make himself weak.

He looked into her lovely, determined face. “No.”

She held his gaze a moment more and he thought he saw despair in her eyes.

Then she turned and left the room.

THE TEARS HAD dried on Silence’s cheeks by the time Michael came to her room that night. She watched from the bed as he laid an assortment of knives and a pistol on her dresser and began to arm himself.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He stilled as if he hadn’t known she was awake. “I’m takin’ Bran back to London and then I’ve some business to be attendin’ to. It won’t take long. Harry and Bert’ll guard ye and Mary here until I return.”

It was just before midnight. If he left now and rode to London, he would be about his “business” for most of what remained of the night. He probably wouldn’t return until well past daybreak tomorrow.

“What business?”

He paused for a fraction of a second—if she hadn’t been watching him she’d wouldn’t have seen it—then he shook his head once and Silence realized he wasn’t going to tell her.

Her heart shrank.

“I didn’t want to leave without sayin’ me farewells.” He strode to the bed with a small knife in his hand. “And I’ve somethin’ for ye.”

She looked at him and then at the knife, blinking sleepily. Did he expect her to become a pirate, too?

“Ye need to know how to defend yerself—defend Mary Darlin’, too.” His voice was gentle. “Come, I’ll show ye.”

He didn’t say that Harry and Bert would have to be dead if it came down to her defending Mary Darling herself, but then he didn’t have to.

Silence got out of the bed and stood before him in her chemise.

“Ye want to jab, quick and sharp like,” he instructed. “Don’t swipe, for yer knife is easily tangled that way.”

He demonstrated a lightning fast blow.

Silence looked at him dubiously. “I’m not that quick.”

“Ye will be with practice,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll bring back padded jackets and ye can learn how to use the knife on me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to stab you with a knife?”

“Aye,” he said seriously. “Ye need to know how to kill a man.”

She shook her head, folding her arms. She felt cold. “Even if you show me how, I won’t ever do that.”

He set his lips. “Then maim him. Thrust for the eyes, the throat, and the belly. That’ll back off even the most insane o’ men.”

She shivered. Was the Vicar insane? She supposed he must be to pursue Michael so blindly. To send someone to kill a woman with vitriol. If it meant protecting Mary Darling from such a beast, she would learn how to wield a knife.

“Here,” Michael said, offering her the knife. “Feel the weight. That’s Spanish, that is, made by a fine swordsmith.”

She didn’t ask where he’d gotten the deadly little knife. She took the dagger and saw that it was rather pretty. The blade had been engraved with flowers of all things. The hilt was curved and fitted her palm perfectly. She weighed it. The dagger was heavy for its size.

Michael stood in back of her and wrapped his right arm around her to hold her hand and show her how to thrust the dagger. With his left he held her by the waist and prompted her movements. After several minutes Silence was panting, but Michael was not even breathing hard.

“Ye can keep it in a pocket under yer skirts or in yer garter,” he said.

Silence wrinkled her nose. “Won’t it rub?”

His eyelids drooped. “It’d better not. I wouldn’t want yer tender skin chafed for the world.”

She turned in his arms, the dagger falling to the floor, and looked up at him. His black eyes were weary and she could see worry for her in his face. The blue-black stubble of his beard shadowed his jaw and his wide, sensuous lips were slightly parted. She reached up to stroke through his hair, feeling the locks curling around her fingers in welcome. He hadn’t told her what his business was in London, but she knew by his refusal to answer her question that it was something to do with his pirating—something dangerous. What if he were wounded—or worse, killed tonight? She might never see him again.

The thought sent an awful tremor through her belly. A world without Michael in it would be utterly dismal. Even if she lived apart from him, she wanted—always—to know that he was somewhere.

She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his warm mouth, tasting the wine they’d drunk at dinner.

She heard him mutter a curse, then he was sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed, placing her gently there.

“Why?” he whispered as he leaned over her, supported on one arm. “Why must ye be the one that haunts me dreams? I’ve seen ye weepin’ night after bloody night since the day I sent ye from me palace with yer dress half undone. If I had it to do over again, I’d cut me own right hand off rather than hurt ye so. Will ye never be able to forgive me, Silence love?”

“I already have,” she replied, cradling his cheek in her hand. “Long, long ago.”

And it was true. She understood now the man he’d been that day—and the man he was today. The two men were the same—her Michael, cruel and gentle, autocratic and kind. If she loved him for his best parts, then she must in some way love him for his worst as well.

“Darlin’.” He skimmed his warm lips over her cheekbone, down to her jaw.

“Michael,” she whispered, longing, hoping. “Can you not—?”

“Hush.” He turned his head, laying his cheek against hers. “Let us not argue.”

She swallowed past the thickness in her throat. They’d already been over this at dinner and come to an impasse: he refused to give up his pirating. There was no more to say on the matter—he was right: discussing it now would only lead to an argument and she didn’t want that just before he went into danger.

So she smiled—or tried to at least, with lips that trembled—and stroked her fingers through his beautiful hair. “Will you lie with me, Michael O’Connor?”

He rose to look at her and she thought she saw something close to love in his black eyes. “If I were at death’s door I’d stand and come to you.”

She’d love this man for the rest of her life. Silence sat up and drew her chemise over her head, baring herself entirely to him. Then she lay down and opened her arms. “Come to me then.”

He needed no further urging. He took her mouth like the marauding pirate he was. She opened gladly, accepting him, catching his tongue and sucking it. He growled and laid himself flat on her, pinning her to the bed. The feel of his coat and breeches against her bare skin was exotic. She wriggled a little, enjoying the friction on her thighs and belly, trying to push the coming sorrow from her mind. She couldn’t change him, after all, only Michael himself could do that. If he refused to act, then she must accept that fact.

Accept and try to recover from the grief.

But he was moving lower now, going from one nipple to the other, licking and gently biting. She grasped the sheets in her hands, gasping at his fierce lovemaking.

“Spread yer legs for me now, sweetin’,” he rasped as he sat back on his knees to unfasten his fall.

She complied, widening her thighs, watching him prepare himself for her.

He palmed his thick erection. “Will ye be wantin’ this now, madam?”

“Yes, please,” she whispered. She wanted to engrave the sight of him thus, about to make love to her, in her mind.

He nodded and taking her by the hips pulled her toward him. He settled her bottom in his lap and pushed the tip of his cock down to rub at her entrance.

She whimpered from the pleasure, the anticipation of what was coming next: joining her body with Michael’s. Submitting to him.

Slowly, slowly he inserted himself in her. The angle was extreme, but because of it, his penis seemed to slide against something sensitive inside her. She felt herself already beginning to break apart—and he wasn’t even all the way in.

“Is it sweet, m’darlin’?” he asked, panting.

She only sighed an answer—the act of speaking seemed too difficult.

Suddenly he was over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock sinking to the hilt in her. He was over her, in her, powerful and male. “Answer, m’love. Is it what ye want?”

Oh, she knew well what he really asked. She raised her eyelids languidly as he stroked out and then into her again, his penis rubbing against sensitive flesh, his body dominating hers. “Yes, it’s what I want.”

“And this?” he asked, face flushed, mouth grim. “Does this meet wi’ yer pleasure?”

He twisted his hips, grinding his pelvis against her, his hips widening her legs until she was completely open, completely vulnerable.

She swallowed, awash in a sea of pleasure, close to tears. “You know it does.”

“Ah, good,” he breathed as his great chest rose and fell faster. “For I cannot imagine a thing more sweet than me cock in yer cunny. This is everythin’ good and right in the world. This is what ye and I were made for.”

She blinked back tears, for he was telling her that he cared for her—as much as he was able.

“Is it enough?” he rasped, his strokes growing swifter, his cock grinding against her clitoris.

She closed her eyes, drowning in his lovemaking, pushing everything else aside.

“Silence,” he said. “Is it enough?”

She opened her eyes with an enormous effort and smiled up at him. “I love you.”

His eyes widened at her words and he roared, still pistoning in and out of her. The feel of his loss of control, the rush of emotion made her come as well, sudden and hard. A warm bubble expanded inside her, reaching her belly, her chest, her limbs and her fingers, until she shook with love and fulfillment.

Until she thought she might die of ecstasy and sorrow.

He collapsed on her, panting, and the rough abrasion of his coat on her tender nipples sent an aftershock to her center.

“Thank ye,” he said, stroking her hair. “Thank ye.”

But she turned her head away, afraid he would see the grief gathering in her eyes.

In a moment more he got up from her and set himself to rights as she lay there, her damp body cooling in the night air.

“I’ll be back by luncheon tomorrow, m’love,” he murmured and bent to kiss her mouth.

She summoned a smile, the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life, but she didn’t want him to remember her sad with grief.

He frowned. “Are ye all right?”

She raised her brows, saying lightly, “Your lovemaking can be quite devastating.”

He grinned and she stared at him greedily, trying to memorize the sight.

“I’ll wear yer scent on me body tonight,” he said wickedly. “And every time I smell it I’ll know yer waitin’ here for me.”

He turned then and left the room, his stride brisk.

Silence lay there, feeling the seep of his semen from her body, and counted to one hundred.

Then she got up and washed quickly. She dressed in the plain brown gown she’d had on when he’d come for her at Caire House—so long ago it seemed now. There was very little to gather—the Spanish dagger and some things of Mary’s. She hesitated over the little book with the courageous sailors, but in the end she took that, as well. He’d meant it for Mary, after all.

She made one quick trip to Michael’s room and then opened the door to the corridor—and found Harry dozing in a chair. She’d only taken one step when his eyelids rose.

“Goin’ for a midnight stroll, are ye?” he asked amiably, but she wasn’t fooled. Harry was eyeing the small bag she carried her things in.

She squared her shoulders. “I’m going home, Harry.”

THE DAWN WAS just breaking when Mick rode up the lane to Windward House, weary in both mind and body. He’d found a ship for Bran easily enough—bound for the West Indies, a long voyage. The boy had said never a word to him all the long way to London. He’d seemed beaten in both mind and body and Mick hadn’t the heart to try and talk to him.

Putting Bran on that ship had been the last thing that had gone simply. Through bribery, guile, and sheer ruthlessness Mick had been able to enter the Vicar’s house—only to find Charlie Grady gone. Either the man had been warned or his damned luck had held out. Mick had been forced to slink away and hope for another opportunity to strike. So it was with a sense of welcome relief that he caught sight of the house.

He pulled his nag to a halt and sat just looking at it a moment. The early sun made the brick glow pinkish-orange. The green shoots around the foundation had lengthened and grown yellow buds. Soon the daffodils would bloom. Mick smiled tiredly. How he looked forward to showing Mary Darling the pretty flowers when they bloomed. He and the baby would pick a posy for Silence and present it to her and then the three of them would sit down to luncheon or tea or some other meal and he would listen as Silence chided him about his food being too rich while he tempted her with some exotic dainty.

God, it was good to be home.

Mick rode around the back and impatiently threw the reins to a sleepy groom. He went in through the kitchens, waving to Bittner and Mrs. Bittner, enjoying their morning tea. Lad, who’d been dozing by the hearth, stood and wagged his tail.

“Sir—” Bittner called as Mick strode past, but Mick didn’t stop.

He took the stairs two at a time and then paused at the top. Where was Harry? Damn it, if Harry or Bert were sleeping, he’d dock them their portion of the next haul.

Mick burst into Silence’s bedroom in a rush, only to pull up short when he saw that the bed was empty. He went through the connecting door to find that his room was empty as well. Only a pair of stockings were laid neatly on his pillow.

Mick stood a moment, staring at the stockings, an awful foreboding crawling up his spine. Slowly he picked them up. They were of different sizes, the heel of one completely wrong. He recognized them as the stockings Silence had knit in the carriage all the way from her sister’s house. They hadn’t been done when they’d arrived at Windward House, but now they obviously were, folded neatly as if they were a present.

For a moment Mick held the ugly stockings in his hand, his mind blank. With an effort he made his legs move, climbed up the stairs to the next floor, and checked the nursery.

A maid slept in the bed next to Mary’s empty cot.

Mick shook her awake roughly. “Where are they?”

The girl rubbed her eyes. “They went away in the night wi’ Mr. Harry and Mr. Bert, sir.”

But Mick was already turning away, dazed, disbelieving.

She’d left him. Silence had left him and taken Mary Darling with her.