Scandalous Desires

Chapter Two

It was dusk by the time Silence, Harry, and Bert made it back to Mickey O’Connor’s gaudily opulent “palace.” The moment they stepped inside Silence heard the screams.

She knew that angry shriek.

Silence took the stairs two at a time, not even slowing at Harry’s worried, “Oi!” from behind her. The screams were growing louder the nearer she got to Mr. O’Connor’s throne room. She pushed open the great double doors and swept right past Bob, the skinny guard, and marched to where Mickey O’Connor stood in the middle of the room with a bawling Mary Darling in his hands.

No wonder the little girl was crying! The pirate held his screaming daughter out at arm’s length as if she were a stinking chamber pot.

“What have you done?” Silence demanded and snatched the baby from his hands.

Mary Darling had stopped shrieking at the sight of Silence, but she still cried, her little face red and swollen, her shoulders shuddering with uncontrollable sobs. Silence recognized this state of affairs: Mary had been wailing for quite some time.

She kissed the baby’s damp cheek, murmuring soothing nonsense and then turned an accusing eye on Mickey O’Connor.

He threw up his hands. “Don’t be lookin’ at me like that. I didn’t touch the brat and no one could get her to stop wailin’!”

Silence covered Mary’s ears. “How dare you?”

Mickey O’Connor scowled, for once looking less than charming. “She started bawlin’ the moment ye left. Like a great, barmy banshee, she was. Near to deafened me, I tell ye.”

“Well, perhaps she doesn’t like it here.” Silence tucked Mary’s still shaking head under her chin and cuddled the baby. “Perhaps she doesn’t like you.”

Mr. O’Connor snorted. “I don’t like her, and that’s a fact, no perhaps about it.”

Silence gasped. “But she’s your daughter!”

“And what does that have to do with the matter?” Mickey asked with a sardonic twist to his lips. “Her dam was a whore I kept for less than a sennight. The first I was hearin’ o’ the babe was when the wench died and left a note that I was the father. An old bawd came and dumped the babe on me, but not afore demandin’ a guinea for the pleasure. For ought I know her mam lied and the babe is none o’ me flesh at all.”

Silence stroked a hand over Mary’s soft curls, truly shocked. Had he no feelings at all? “Is that what you truly think?”

“Matters not at all, does it?” He turned away, one wide shoulder shrugging elegantly. “Daughter or not, flesh or not, like her or not, she’s me own now, so don’t be a-gettin’ any ideas to the contrary. Now follow me like a good lass and I’ll be showin’ ye to yer room.”

He strode away as if he did indeed expect her to follow like “a good lass.” Had Silence any choice she would’ve remained where she was. But since Mary was already half-asleep on her shoulder, she tramped after the awful man with Harry and Bert bringing up the rear.

He led her out through the double doors—Bob ran to open them as Mickey O’Connor approached so he didn’t have to stop. Mr. O’Connor didn’t acknowledge the courtesy, merely striding past like a king, but Silence nodded her thanks to the skinny guard as she hurried after.

Mickey O’Connor stalked down a short hallway and then through another door that led to the back of the house. A big man stood guard here as well. The gold walls and marble floor stopped at the door, but that didn’t mean this area of the house was any less richly appointed. The carved wood panels of the walls shone richly with beeswax and the floor beneath their feet was thickly carpeted. Mr. O’Connor mounted a set of stairs, Silence panting behind, trying to tamp down the frisson of dread remembrance. Mickey O’Connor had taken her this way once before, and she hadn’t emerged again entirely whole.

The sound of the pirate’s heels as he led her and the smell of fresh beeswax on the panels suddenly made the memory of that night rise up, overwhelming her like water closing over her head.

William, her dear husband, had been accused of stealing the cargo from his ship—the cargo that Mickey O’Connor had taken.

So Silence had come to St. Giles, wrapping herself in foolish bravery, love for William, and a fatal naïveté. She’d pleaded with Mickey O’Connor for William. She’d thrown herself on the mercy of a wolf, forgetting that wolves didn’t understand even the idea of mercy.

Mr. O’Connor had told her that he would replace the cargo—but that in return she’d have to spend the night with him. He’d stood up from his throne and led her from the throne room and through these very hallways.

By that time she’d been very nearly in a panic. She was a good woman—a virtuous woman—and she had no choice but to think that he would debauch her. Instead, he’d brought her to his magnificent bedroom, seated her by the fire, and called for supper. Servants had brought the most beautiful meal she had ever seen. Sweets and rich meats and hothouse fruits. He’d insisted she eat and she’d obeyed him, though the food had tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Afterward, he’d bid her lay in his big bed, stripped the shirt from his body… and then he’d ignored her, reading papers by the fire, half unclothed. When she couldn’t stand it any longer she’d sat up. “What do you mean to do with me?”

He’d glanced up in feigned surprise, the shadows the firelight had cast across his face making him look nearly demonic. “Why, nothin’, Mrs. Hollingbrook. What did ye think I’d do with ye?”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

He’d smiled—not a nice smile. No, this was a smile such as a wolf would give just before he tore into the doe’s throat. “What will ye tell yer husband when ye return to his arms tomorrow?”

“Tell him? I’ll tell him the truth: that we dined together, but that nothing else happened.”

“And he’ll believe ye?”

“Of course!” She’d been outraged. “William loves me.”

He’d nodded. “If he loves ye, he’ll believe ye.”

His words had been like a curse. Even then—sitting on that ridiculously lush bed, just beginning to feel the relief that she wouldn’t have to sacrifice her pride to this man—even then, she’d shivered with foreboding.

The next morning Mickey O’Connor had made her undo the front of her dress until her breasts were nearly revealed. He’d had her take down her hair and tousle it about her face. And then he’d made her promise to walk up the street like that.

As if she were a common whore leaving his bed.

It had been hard—until then the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life—but she’d walked up that street, past the catcalls of the whores returning home for the night. She’d found her sister, Temperance, waiting for her at the end of the street, worried sick about what had happened to Silence over the night. Silence had collapsed in her sister’s arms, hoping that the terrible spell was over.

But that walk up the street in disarray had not been the worst—not by a long shot. For after that night she’d found that no one believed her. Not Winter, not Temperance, not the butcher on the corner, not her neighbors in Wapping.

No one.

Not even her darling husband, William. They all had thought Charming Mickey O’Connor had raped her. William had hardly been able to look at her before he left on that last voyage. He’d turned his head aside as if the sight of her shamed him—or as if she repelled him. And as she had watched her love leave, that last time on a ship that in six months’ time would be lost at sea, Mickey O’Connor’s words had echoed in her mind:

If he loves ye, he’ll believe ye.

Silence blinked and saw that they were climbing past a wide landing. She caught sight of familiar gilded double doors and glanced hastily away. Mickey O’Connor led her to the next floor up and then to the first door in the hallway there. He opened it with a flourish to reveal a neat bedroom with pink walls and white trim. Silence stopped short in astonishment. A bed with embroidered flowered hangings stood in one corner. Beside it was a cot with spindled rails all around the outside—obviously a child’s bed. There was even a small sitting area with a settee before the fireplace. Harry was already placing her trunk at the foot of the bed while Bert took a chair outside the door.

All in all the room was very nice—and terribly out of place in this den of iniquity.

Silence turned to Mr. O’Connor with a frown. “Who usually resides in this room?”

He’d leaned a broad shoulder against the fireplace mantel as he watched her examine the room. “Why, no one, darlin’. Did ye think I kept a passel o’ virgins here to sacrifice to me wicked lust?”

She could feel herself color at his mocking words. “I merely wondered.”

“Ah, well, wonder no longer. This room is for ye and ye alone.” He arched one satanic eyebrow. “Have ye any other questions?”

“Um… no.”

“Then I’ll leave ye to make yerself at home. Supper’s at eight o’clock. Sharp, mind. Harry’ll show ye the way.” He’d straightened from the mantel as he spoke, and now he strode out the door without so much as a backward glance.

Silence stared, rather stunned, as the door closed softly behind the river pirate. “Wretched man!”

There was a soft gasp from near the bed and Silence noticed for the first time that a girl sat by the cot. It was the same maidservant who had brought Mary Darling into the throne room.

Behind Silence, Harry cleared his throat with a sound like boulders rubbing together. “This ’ere’s Fionnula, ’oo’s been set to carin’ for the babe.”

“Ma’am.” Fionnula dipped in an awkward curtsy, abandoned halfway down. She was a pretty girl, perhaps no more than eighteen, her fair skin freckled, her hair a lovely reddish blond, springing out from its pins in a cloud of curls about her face.

“Mrs. ’Ollingbrook is goin’ to stay ’ere with the little lassie, Fionnula,” Harry said. “Orders o’ ’Imself, so mind what she says, ’ear?”

Fionnula nodded, apparently struck mute by Harry’s instructions.

“Well, then,” Harry said after an awkward pause. “Ah… I’ll jus’ push along. ’Imself ’as given orders that me and Bert’ll be watchin’ after ye while yer ’ere, Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, so if’n ye need anythin’, jus’ give us a ’oller. We’ll be outside the door.”

And Harry left, as well.

Silence scowled at the door through which the men had disappeared. “Sometimes I suspect that men are great idiots.”

Fionnula gave a surprised giggle, hurriedly muffled.

Silence smiled sheepishly at the girl. It was hardly Fionnula’s fault that Mr. O’Connor was such an autocratic pirate.

“The babe’s fair worn out,” Fionnula said, nodding at Mary still in Silence’s arms. Her Irish burr was pronounced.

“She is, isn’t she?” Silence whispered. She carried Mary to the cot and gently laid her down, hovering a moment to see if the toddler would wake.

But Mary was exhausted from her crying bout and slept deeply.

Silence straightened and moved to the fireplace, motioning Fionnula to follow. “So you were looking after Mary today?”

“Aye,” the maid said shyly. “She was fair mad to’ve been taken from her home. She’s a handsome lass, though. The spittin’ image of Himself.”

“That she is,” Silence murmured as she sank into the settee. She hadn’t had a moment to rest since she’d discovered Mary missing and weariness was making her limbs liquid. “Is this your room now, too?”

Fionnula’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, ma’am. ’Tisn’t anyone’s as far as I know, savin’ yerself. I have a cot in the attic, same as the other maids, but Himself has said I’m to sleep through there now.” She gestured to a small door on the wall.

“Oh, yes?” Silence got up to peek into Fionnula’s room. It was barely big enough to hold a cot and a row of pegs on the wall. Certainly it was far more Spartan than Silence’s and Mary’s room. She came back and flung herself down on the settee again and looked at the maid curiously. “When did you come to work for Mr. O’Connor?”

“A bit more’n a month ago.” Fionnula’s fair face suddenly flamed. “I… I have a friend who lives here.”

By the blush on the maid’s face, Silence thought the “friend” must be a man. “Surely not Harry?”

Fionnula giggled. “Oh, no, ma’am!”

“Or Mr. O’Connor?” Silence asked with a strangely heavy heart. Had he sent his kept woman to watch over her?

“Goodness, no,” Fionnula said. “The ladies that Himself entertains are fancy pieces, quite lovely like. I’m not nearly as beautiful or as high in the instep as they.”

“Oh. Of course.” Silence got up to unpack her meager trunk.

The reality of her situation swept over her. She’d placed herself entirely in the power of an evil man—a man whose only use for women was to have them “entertain” him. This wasn’t what she wanted for Mary Darling—or herself. Once again she’d let Mickey O’Connor get the upper hand. For a moment panic rose in her chest, nearly suffocating her.

“Are ye all right, ma’am?” Fionnula asked hesitantly.

Silence glanced up and saw the little maid watching her worriedly. “Oh, yes. Just a little tired.”

She rose to put away a pile of stockings, but as she did she came to a decision: she might be in Mickey O’Connor’s palace again, but that didn’t mean this time had to end like the last. This time the pirate would find that Silence Hollingbrook had a mind and a spirit of her own.

And she would never blindly obey him again.

THE LITTLE WIDOW’S presence in his palace gave him an odd itch ’tween the shoulder blades, Mick mused later that evening as he spread out a great map upon a table. ’Twas a crawling feeling, two parts curiosity, one of lust, with a dram of uneasy wariness stirred in.

Strange, that, since he’d spent the last year slyly planning to get Silence Hollingbrook exactly where she was—under his power and under his roof. It’d been a whim in the beginning. He’d eyed the squalling babe held in the greedy old bawd’s arms, and known at once that the babe would have to be hidden from the Vicar. And why not her? he’d thought. Why not the righteous Mrs. Hollingbrook? Perhaps it was a way to claim some of that pure virtue she’d blazed at him in his own throne room. To steal by proxy what he could never earn. It had given him a bittersweet satisfaction: to hide the flesh of his flesh with the woman he’d harmed most in the world. To tie Silence to him with bonds of her own maternal love.

Aye, and now at last he’d brought her back to his palace and by rights he ought to be feeling a triumphant bit of glee, hadn’t he?

Not an odd, crawling sensation instead.

“She seems content enough.” Harry’s broad, ugly face wrinkled as if he were thinking on whether “content” was really the word he wanted. “I left ’er with Fionnula.”

Mick shot him a sardonic glance before returning his gaze to the map spread upon a great gilded table before him. Rumor had it that the table had been meant for a royal palace. But that was before Mick had demanded it in tithe from a captain who’d tried to wriggle out from his just obligations to Mick and his crew. Made it all the sweeter to have it in his own planning room, then.

“Left her alone?” Mick asked with an edge to his voice. Silence was in his palace now—a treasure he’d protect like any other.

“Naw,” Harry said hastily. “Bert’s guardin’ ’er.”

“Good,” Mick grunted. “I’d be best pleased if’n she and the babe were within eyesight o’ one o’ ye at all times. She’s to be guarded well, mind.” He spread the map, leaning on it with both arms outstretched and studied it. “Where’s this dock yer contemplatin’?” he asked the third man in the room.

“Down here,” Bran Kavanagh said, waving his hand over the lower Thames. “It’s rumored that the owners are in debt. They’ll sell cheap.”

The lad leaned forward eagerly, forgetting that he liked to pretend an air of sophistication. Bran had been with Mick for the last six years or more. He was a pretty lad of twenty or so, all light blue eyes and red-brown hair pulled back into a queue. Made the girls quite swoon over him—much to Bran’s discomfort, for the lad was a solemn one.

Except as now when he had a scheme brewing in his brain.

Mick examined the area Bran had indicated. “What’re ye thinkin’ we can do with it?”

“We can buy the docks and charge for the use of them,” Bran said at once. He’d been contemplating his plan for a while, it seemed. “Or sell them again at a higher price in the future. It’s a bit of insurance against lean times.”

“Mmm,” Mick murmured. He hadn’t told Bran, but he already had “insurance.” “I do like the idea o’ insurance.”

Bran grinned, quick and hopeful. “Then you’ll buy the docks?”

Mick sighed, hating to disappoint the lad, but business was business. “If I go a-buyin’ docks and such, then I’ll be havin’ to hire secretaries and managers and the like to run the damn things. Might be more expense than profit.”

The corners of Bran’s mouth turned down—the boy hadn’t yet learned to hide his emotions properly. “If you wait, they’ll sell to someone else. We’ll have lost the docks and another mayn’t come up for sale for years.”

“And if I jump too soon, I’ll lose me money,” Mick said. “It’s an interestin’ idea, Bran, me lad, but I’ll have to think on it a bit.”

“But—”

Mick shook his head once, staring at the boy sternly. “And besides, I’ve other matters to settle first—ones involvin’ the Vicar.”

Bran looked away. “As you like.”

“I do like,” Mick said mildly as he rolled up the map. “What have ye found out for me?”

Bran sighed. “I saw his men lurking around the orphans’ home this afternoon after Mrs. Hollingbrook left. You got the babe out just in time, I’m thinking.”

“Lurkin’ in plain sight?”

“Aye,” Bran replied. “The Vicar’s men have become quite bold. They tramp about St. Giles in packs of four or five without a care in the world.”

“Fuck ’em,” Mick growled. “St. Giles is mine and I’ll see those bloody whoresons run out.” He stretched his neck. “And how did the Vicar find out about the babe in the first place is what I’m wonderin’.”

“You did have men watching her,” Bran pointed out.

Mick looked up, eyes narrowed, only to find Harry nodding thoughtfully.

“Might’ve led the Vicar straight to the babe,” Harry said.

Mick grunted. He didn’t like the thought that ’twas his own error that had led the Vicar’s men to the orphanage and the babe. There was another possibility, too: Had one of his men betrayed his secret to the Vicar?

“Then he knows that I have the babe within me palace,” Mick said slowly.

Bran nodded grimly.

Mick sighed. “Well, ’twas never me plan to hide the fact that I had her safe. He knows he must attack me palace to get to her—and that, I’m thinkin’, he’ll be loath to do.” He looked at Bran. “What have ye found out about the Vicar himself?”

“The Vicar’s got dozens of men around him at all times,” Bran replied. “He guards himself better than you, come to that. It’ll be a right job to get to him.”

“Ah, but get to him we must,” Mick said. “ ’Tis near the end o’ winter and he’ll be runnin’ low on grain for his damned gin stills. Have some o’ me men find out who’s supplyin’ him. I’ll offer the suppliers an incentive to quit doin’ business with the Vicar.”

“Very well.” Bran hesitated, then blurted out, “But I don’t see why you two are at war. He has his gin distilling and you have the river. How do your interests cross?”

Sad brown eyes rose up in his inner mind, the lilt of an Irish voice, Me darlin’ Mickey.

Mick grimaced, pushing the memories aside. “It’s a personal matter. One ye needn’t worry about.”

Bran frowned as Mick put away the map. “That’s your own affair, but we’re spending time on the Vicar and getting no money in return.”

“Aye, and I’m aware o’ it,” Mick said. “If I could end this, I would. But I’m afraid the Vicar isn’t such a reasonable gent as m’self.”

“Then you’ll have to kill him.” Bran’s light blue eyes were young—and utterly ruthless.

“I would, but as ye’ve pointed out, the man guards himself well.” Mick tapped the table for a moment in thought, then came to a decision. “We’re better off takin’ the roundabout way. Cut off his grain, starve him, and run him out o’ St. Giles for good. In the meantime, send some o’ me men about to roust any o’ his crew they find in St. Giles.”

Bran nodded. “As you wish.”

Mick arched an eyebrow. The boy was still lingering though he’d been given his orders. “Somethin’ else on yer mind?”

“What about this Mrs. Hollingbrook?” Bran’s upper lip curled. “I can see keeping the child—if you think she’s truly yours—but why insist the wench stay, as well? She’s a distraction.”

Mick’s jaw tightened. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware I need explain m’self to ye, lad.”

Bran’s face went a fiery scarlet. A muscle beneath his right eye jumped and then he turned and left the room abruptly.

Harry had been leaning on the wall in the corner, but he stirred now. “The boy’s impatient.”

“That he is,” Mick muttered.

“ ’E’s clever, is our Bran,” Harry said with an air of consideration. “But a bit rash.”

Mick cocked a sardonic eyebrow at Harry, waiting.

Harry straightened. “ ’E may not like Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, but Bran does ’ave a bit o’ a point. Are ye sure ’tis best to keep ’er ’ere?”

Mick’s reaction was immediate and gut-deep. Silence was his and he would hold her. No one was going to change that.

“Second-guessin’ me, Harry?” Mick asked with silky menace.

The big man flinched, but didn’t back down. “Now, ye know I’d never do such, Mick. But, see, she’s a soft thing, is Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, though she ’ides it be’ind a sharp tongue. She’s a lady, through and through, and easily ’urt. Ye ’ad yer way with ’er once afore. Is it necessary like to play with ’er again?”

Mick glanced down at the papers he’d picked up. They’d crumpled beneath the force of his grip. Hazel eyes weeping in the night. “I find m’self in a strangely good mood this evenin’, Harry, otherwise ye know I’d not be allowin’ such questionin’.”

“I know that, I do,” Harry said earnestly.

“Then ye know also that I’ll be answerin’ yer damned questions jus’ this once,” Mick said, his eyes pinning Harry. “I trust ye remember the girl found upon me doorstep jus’ last week?”

“I do.”

“She’d been in me palace only nights afore, though I didn’t take her to me bed,” Mick rasped, remembering the body of the girl. Her face had looked like it had melted off her head. Jaysus. That wouldn’t happen to Silence Hollingbrook, not while he still lived. “Can ye imagine what the Vicar would do to someone I might… care about?”

Harry looked away uneasily. He’d been the one to find the body. “Aye, but Mick, the Vicar don’t know ye fancy ’er, does ’e?”

“I don’t know.” Mick felt his jaw clench at the admission. “I thought the babe secret and safe as well—and she wasn’t, was she?”

Harry shook his head soberly.

“Either he knows already or he soon will—he’s not stupid is the Vicar. It’s very necessary that I keep Mrs. Hollingbrook here with me,” Mick said softly. “Do we have a problem?”

Harry swallowed. “No.”

“Good.” Mick nodded. “And Harry?”

Harry, who had turned to the door, froze. “Aye, Mick?”

Mick smiled thinly. “Whatever else I might be doin’ with Mrs. Hollingbrook, I’m not playin’.”

The information didn’t lighten Harry’s expression. He was wearing a frown on his ugly face when he left the planning room.

Mick cursed and flung himself onto a velvet settee. Months of scheming had finally born sweet, juicy fruit and yet he still had a feeling of… What? Some strange emotion, some odd sense that he hadn’t truly won. Mick snorted. And what sort of pirate felt any emotion at all? He had the wench in his grasp, held fast in his own domain where he might examine her at his leisure. Find out why the little widow Hollingbrook brought such an uncommon itch to his skin, making him as restless as a caged wolf. He’d forgotten the face of the lass he’d bedded just the night afore, yet Silence Hollingbrook’s wide hazel eyes had haunted his sleep for months.

Muttering to himself, Mick rang for his accountant, Pepper. The balding sparrow of a man came to him promptly enough and for the next hour or so Mick listened to the man drone on about ships and building materials until his head fairly ached. Yet at the end of that time, had anyone asked, Mick realized he wouldn’t have been able to report what Pepper had said.

Sighing, Mick sent the accountant away again, then washed his face and hands and headed to supper.

The dining room was a cavernous hall—Mick liked to have all his people eat the evening meal together—and thus the room was usually quite loud. But as Mick entered tonight, what conversation there’d been quickly quieted.

He looked about. Bran was seated next to Fionnula. Pepper was across from him, a book open on his empty plate. A couple of Mick’s current women tittered together in the corner, while Bert glared at them from across the way. And a dozen or so of Mick’s night crew took up the far end of the long tables set end to end. To a man they were a dangerous, shifty lot—and yet not a one could meet his eye. Even the sweetmeats boy, Tris, was seated behind Mick’s chair, ready to serve him.

Everyone was there in fact, except Mrs. Hollingbrook.

Mick strode to Fionnula. “Where is she?”

The girl trembled. “She said that she couldn’t come down to sup.”

Mick bent and whispered softly, “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

The girl gulped and said bravely, “Wouldn’t”

Mick inhaled, feeling rage boil within his breast. He turned heel and left the room without a word. No one ignored his summons to supper—a fact Mrs. Hollingbrook was about to learn the hard way.

SILENCE HAD JUST finished feeding Mary Darling her dinner when Mickey O’Connor burst into the bedroom without so much as a knock. She glanced up, startled, and then stiffened at the grim set of his mouth.

Mary Darling frowned sternly, looking quite a bit like her sire at the moment. “Bad!”

Mickey O’Connor narrowed his eyes at the baby and then turned to Silence. “ ’Tis supper time—or hadn’t ye heard?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes, I’d heard. Fionnula informed me.”

“Then why aren’t ye downstairs with everyone else, darlin’?” he asked much too gently.

He stood preternaturally still, his head cocked as if listening to her breathing.

Silence found herself licking her lips nervously. She reminded herself of the promise she’d made just this afternoon: she would not blindly obey this man again. Refusing to dine with Mickey O’Connor might seem like a small defiance, but it was the only one she had. “I prefer to eat in my room with Mary.”

“All those who live under me roof dine together downstairs.”

She tilted her chin. “Do they?”

“Yes, they do,” he said. “Get up.”

His tone was so commanding that she almost did just that. Silence exhaled carefully and lifted Mary from her lap. She set the toddler on the floor and Mary immediately began exploring the room, holding on to the settee seat as she went.

She met his eyes. “No.”

“What?”

He’d heard her well enough so Silence merely folded her arms in answer. The posture also served to hide the trembling of her hands.

He stared at her a moment and there was anger on his handsome face, but there was also a kind of animal curiosity as well. “Why not?”

She inhaled, trying to calm the rapid beat of her heart. “Maybe I don’t want to break bread with pirates. Maybe I don’t want to dine with you. Maybe I simply prefer my quiet room. Does it matter? Whatever my reasons I will not obey you.”

He’d stilled and she found herself holding her breath, as if waiting for an attack. He stood in front of the fire, the light limning the tight fit of his breeches on muscled legs, his hands fisted by his sides, his big shoulders bunched and ready. His face was absolutely motionless, and she thought again how beautiful he was—beautiful and dangerously feral.

“Well, then, Mrs. Hollingbrook,” he finally drawled, “that’s yer choice sure enough, but ye’ll not be eatin’ at all until ye grace me supper table.”

Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “You’ll starve your own child?”

He sliced the air with the blade of his palm, his rings winking in the firelight. “I never said the babe won’t be eatin’. I’ll have enough victuals sent up for her, but not yerself, me darlin’. Feast on that fact, why don’t ye?”

And with that he stalked from the room.

Of all the absurd, autocratic commands! For a moment Silence stared at the closed door, shocked. He couldn’t just order her starved, could he? Except, of course, he could. Mickey O’Connor lived like some primitive king and like a king he was obeyed absolutely in his own home. Her gaze darted to the small tray that had been sent up earlier with Mary’s supper. A few bits of cheese, and a bowl smeared with the remains of stewed apples still sat there. Silence could nibble on that, but Mary often decided to have a snack before bedtime. Silence would never deprive the baby of her food.

She blew out a frustrated breath. Why did Mr. O’Connor care anyway where she chose to dine? If he truly was surrounded by his gang and a bevy of beautiful females, he’d hardly notice if she were there or not. The whole thing came down to control: Mr. O’Connor wanted to have her at his supper table simply to show that he could make her do as he wished. Well, it would do such a dictatorial man good to find that he couldn’t always have his way.

Besides, he wouldn’t truly starve her, would he?

On that rather disquieting thought Silence finally roused herself to ready Mary for bed. Mary only fussed a little bit as her hands and face were washed and a clean chemise was pulled over her head. Halfway through their bedtime game of patty-cake Mary yawned and by the time she was settled in her little cot she was nearly asleep. Silence sat by the cot, quietly rubbing Mary’s back until the little girl’s knuckle crept to her mouth and her rosebud lips pursed in sleep.

Silence smiled ruefully. Mary was so angelic in sleep. One would never realize the tyrant the toddler could be when awake. And Silence had come so close to losing her today. Her breath caught on the thought and she leaned down to carefully brush a kiss against the tiny flushed cheek.

She rose then, and went to look at the tray before the fireplace. The last bits of cheese had been eaten before the game of patty-cake, but there was still a puddle of stewed apples in the bowl. Silence rubbed her stomach. She’d missed luncheon in the frantic search for Mary and now her stand against Mr. O’Connor’s despotic ways seemed a bit… shortsighted.

She was reaching for the bowl when the door to the room opened. Silence snatched back her hand guiltily and whirled to find Fionnula creeping into the room.

“Oh!” the maid said, gasping softly at Silence’s sudden movement. “I didn’t mean to startle ye, ma’am.”

“That’s all right.” Silence exhaled. “I was just preparing for bed.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the maid said shyly. “I’ll just tidy up, shall I?”

Silence watched wistfully as Fionnula picked up the tray and brought it to the door, handing it to a servant outside.

“Thank you,” Silence murmured.

“Not at all,” Fionnula replied. “Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” Silence began.

But Fionnula hastily answered. “Oh, but I fetched ye a fresh cloth with which to refresh yerself. I knew ye’d use the one here to wash the wee babe.”

The maid had come closer as she said this and she now handed Silence a bundled cloth. Silence took it and immediately realized that something was hidden in the folds. Her gaze darted to Fionnula’s face in question. The maid’s eyes widened in warning as she glanced significantly toward the still-cracked door.

“If that’s all, I’ll just be biddin’ ye good night.”

“Yes.” Silence hastily set the bundle on a table. “Thank you, Fionnula.”

The maid went into her own bedroom and Silence crossed to the outer door. Bert was sitting in a chair against the wall on the opposite side of the hall.

Silence nodded to him. “Good night, Mr…. er, Mr. Bert.”

Bert scowled, but nodded grudgingly.

Silence closed her bedroom door very firmly. Goodness! She was beginning to wonder if the guards were there to ensure her and Mary’s safety or to keep them from wandering. Shaking her head, she went to the bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it. There lying on the pristine cloth was a slice of seedcake and a bit of roasted beef. Her stomach growled at the sight. What would Mr. O’Connor do if he learned of Fionnula’s disobedience? Silence would have to talk to the maid tomorrow—tell Fionnula that she must not risk herself on Silence’s behalf. But for now…

Well, right now she was very grateful for the supper.

She ate the cake and meat and washed it down with water from a pitcher on the table by the bed. Then she bathed as best she could. She doused the candles and removed her clothes in the dark. Clad only in her chemise, she climbed into the big canopied bed.

For long moments Silence lay, staring sightlessly in the dark. This morning she’d woken to a usual, chaotic day at the home. Tonight she lay cut off from all her family and friends. As she listened to the soft whisper of Mary Darling’s breathing she made this vow: she would endure whatever she must for the baby’s sake.

And whatever happened, she would not break under Mickey O’Connor’s rule.

MICK WOKE IN the darkest part of night, the time when men forgot their bravery of the day and wonder if their souls still lived upon this lonely earth. He stared into the blackness, listening to the breathing of the wenches in his bed, thinking about the dream that had disturbed his sleep.

Her hazel eyes had been weeping, great teardrops of sorrow and accusation, which was a damned funny thing considering she’d never wept on that night over a year ago now. Why she should haunt his dreams so, he could not fathom. He’d killed men, some so young they still grew only down upon their cheeks. If he were to be haunted, surely it was those ghosts, long consigned to hell, that should be drifting through his sleep.

Not the color-shifting eyes of a woman who yet lived.

She was a part of him now somehow, whether he wanted it so or not. He’d not felt so close to a female since his mam—his mind skidded away from the thought. The heat and the stink of sex from the girls on either side of him suddenly made his stomach turn. Mick rose silently, padding on bare feet to pull on a pair of breeches. He left his room and stole through the darkened corridors of his palace until he reached Silence’s door. Harry watched as Mick approached, though the guard didn’t say a word. Carefully Mick turned the door handle. The door opened without squeaking for he’d ordered the hinges oiled well.

Her room was smaller than his, but somehow the air seemed fresher, less close. He could hear the sound of the child’s heavy breathing in sleep and softer, slower, the woman’s. He went to stand next to the bed and even though the room was unlit, he could make out, faintly, her slight form beneath the covers. The sight somehow calmed his soul. She lay in his bed, in his house, and no matter what bargain she thought she’d made with him, he knew the truth.

He had no plans to let her go—ever.