Scandalous Desires

Chapter Four

“But ye can’t!” Fionnula hissed early the next morning.

“Who says so?” Silence asked stubbornly as she took a quick look up and down the hall outside her room. Harry was eating breakfast and she’d just sent Bert to call a servant. She only had a minute at most while the guards were occupied.

“Himself, that’s who,” Fionnula cried in a muted wail. “He’s given orders that yer not to leave the rooms until ye consent to dine with him.”

Silence snorted softly. “Mickey O’Connor is not my master.”

“He mayn’t be,” Fionnula said, “but he’s used to bein’ obeyed.”

“Then Mr. O’Connor is in for a surprise.”

Silence slipped from the room with Mary Darling in her arms and ran lightly toward the back of the hallway—away from the stairs where Bert had gone. She stopped at the corner to catch her breath before continuing more sedately.

A touch at her shoulder nearly made her scream.

“Where are ye plannin’ on goin’?” Fionnula whispered.

“I don’t know,” Silence admitted, “but Mary needs new surroundings to explore. Perhaps a sitting room?”

Fionnula looked doubtful. “I don’t think Himself spends much time sittin’. He’s not exactly gentry.”

“The library, then. That’s below us.” Silence looked worriedly at Fionnula. “But I don’t want to get you into trouble. Perhaps I ought to tie you up? We can say I’ve overpowered you.”

Fionnula rolled her eyes. “As if anyone would believe that.”

Behind them came a noise like an enraged bull. “Oi!” Bert had discovered her absence.

Silence couldn’t restrain a start, but at least she didn’t break stride.

Mary bounced in her arms, looking over Silence’s shoulder. “ ’Ert!”

They reached the stairwell just as Bert caught up with them.

“Now see ’ere,” the guard panted. “Where d’ye think yer goin’?”

“To the library,” Silence said airily as she started down the stairs.

Bert scoffed. “Right next to ’Imself’s plannin’ room, that is. Ye’ll not get two steps past the stairwell.”

The news made Silence’s pulse race. She was already at the landing, but she didn’t stop, sailing through the doorway and into the lower corridor. Charming Mickey O’Connor might discover her disobedience—she was counting on it, in fact—but that wouldn’t detain her. It was important that she assert her rights, her will to not be treated like some pawn at the beck and call to Mickey O’Connor’s whims. In fact—

Hard hands caught her waist and Silence couldn’t help a squeak of surprise and alarm. She was lifted quite off her feet with Mary Darling still clutched to her breast.

“What is Mrs. Hollingbrook doin’ out o’ her rooms?” Mickey O’Connor’s voice rumbled behind her, far too calmly.

Silence craned her neck and saw that the pirate held her at arm’s length, his face quite expressionless. She gulped and faced forward again, only to see Fionnula frozen while Bert opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish.

“Don’t blame Bert or Fionnula,” Silence blurted out. “This is my fault—”

“I never thought otherwise,” Mr. O’Connor snapped. “Take the babe.”

Fionnula darted forward, eyes wide and before Silence could protest Mary was in the maidservant’s arms.

Silence frowned. “Now see here—”

“Not a word,” the pirate whispered, and somehow his lowered voice was even more frightening than a shout.

He swung her and suddenly Silence found herself on her stomach over Mickey O’Connor’s shoulder—a most ignominious position—one broad hand clamped firmly over her bottom to hold her in place.

“Put me down,” she said with as much dignity as possible, considering that all the blood was rushing to her head.

He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he simply turned and strode down the hall.

“Mr. O’Connor!” Silence found she had no choice but to brace her hands on his hips if she didn’t want her nose to bounce off his extremely firm rear end.

He didn’t reply as he mounted the stairs—seemingly without effort despite steadying her weight with only one arm—but Silence thought she might have heard him muttering to himself under his breath.

Or possibly cursing.

She gulped. She’d defied him outright this time—and humiliated him in front of his man and Fionnula to boot. There was a very real possibility that his ire might take a physical form. But she’d made up her mind not to bend to his will and she’d stick to her guns—no matter the cost.

So it was with a feeling of both defiance and trepidation that Silence found herself tossed on the bed minutes later. She bounced on the soft mattress, struggling to push her hair out of her hot face. She must present a firm but calm countenance to the pirate.

Still she couldn’t help gulping when at last she looked up.

Mickey O’Connor loomed over her, arms crossed, feet braced wide apart. “What in the name o’ all that’s holy did ye think ye were doin’?”

She tilted her chin. “Going for a walk.”

He bent, thrusting his handsome face into hers. “When I gave ye orders to stay in yer rooms?”

“Yes.” She licked her bottom lip.

For a moment his gaze dropped to her mouth before snapping back up to meet her eyes. “No one disobeys me in me own home!”

For a moment she wasn’t sure she could speak. He was crowded into her, his very breath hot upon her cheek. He was so much bigger than she. So much more physically powerful.

But she had determination. “Evidently someone does now.”

His nostrils flared and for a moment all she could do was hold her breath.

Then he abruptly straightened and stomped to her door. He wrenched it open and glared at her. “Stay in this fuckin’ room or I swear ye’ll be regrettin’ it.”

The walls shook as he slammed the door.

Silence exhaled and flopped back on the bed. She felt as if she’d weathered a thunderstorm, but one thought rang gleefully in her mind:

She, Silence Hollingbrook, meek widow of no particular means, had just faced down Charming Mickey O’Connor, the most feared pirate in London.

SUCH A STUBBORN little thing she was! Mick stalked along the corridor to the stairs. When he came to a rag and bucket, carelessly left by a maid, he kicked it over. The clatter of the falling bucket was gratifying, but didn’t tame his foul mood. Why wouldn’t she sit meekly in her rooms? Why wouldn’t she fucking obey him? He hadn’t a bloody clue what he would do if she defied him again. The thought of giving her any sort of pain was simply out of the question and if he couldn’t physically punish her…

Mick stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glared sightlessly at a tiny picture on the wall. It was an ancient Madonna and child, their halos layered in gold, Mary’s face was pinched and disapproving and an odd shade of green. The widow had been in his home a mere two days and already she was overthrowing his orderly life.

There was the sound of a throat clearing behind him.

“What the bloody hell is it, Harry?” Mick growled without turning.

“Ah, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Bert is upset that Mrs. ’Ollingbrook got past ’im and I was thinkin’—“

Mick shook his head once. “I’m not discussin’ her right now.”

“Ah…”

“Is there anythin’ else?”

“Bran was wantin’ to know when ye’ll be talkin’ to the owner of the Alexander.”

Mick turned at that. “After me supper, but afore midnight. Let the man get sleepy in his great house a-thinkin’ Mick O’Connor has forgotten that he didn’t pay tithe on his last bloody ship.”

Harry pursed his lips. “Sleepy or not, ’e’d be a great fool not to be well guarded in ’is own ’ome.”

“No doubt.” Mick started down the corridor. “Which is why I’ll be bringin’ Pat and Sean as well as Bran.”

“Think that’ll be enough?” Harry hurried to keep up with him.

“Aye. We’ll be a-waitin’ in his room for him when he goes to bed.” Mick reached his rooms and flung open the door. “The shock of seein’ four armed men in his bedroom will, I think, be enough to soften him up right finely.”

Mick stopped dead in the middle of his bedroom. His bed was a huge piece of furniture with posts as big around as a man’s thighs. He’d slept comfortably there with two other bedmates—and had he wished, could’ve fit another three. The bed was so massive it usually dwarfed whoever occupied it. But not the big dog draped over both his pillows. The animal lay with its pale belly exposed, forepaws up in the air, its great head turned to the side, jaws agape and tongue lolling.

“What,” Mick said softly, “is Lad doin’ in me bed?”

Hearing his name, Lad opened small, piggish, upside-down eyes, gazing with idiotic adoration as his whip-thin tail thumped the covers.

“Ah.” Harry scratched behind one ear. “Well, see, ’e was lookin’ so forlorn, like, out in the courtyard by ’imself. Seemed an awful shame to leave ’im there all alone.”

“Off!” Mick roared at the dog.

Lad’s transformation was instantaneous. His tiny triangle ears folded back, his eyes narrowed worriedly, and he rolled so that he could crawl toward the edge of the bed on his belly.

“Is that mud on his paws?” Mick asked in outrage.

Harry glanced at the dog. “I do believe it is,” he said as if making a discovery.

“Christ!” Mick watched disgustedly as Lad made the edge of the bed and slithered off, thumping to the floor. The dog seemed to think that his apology was done—or perhaps he’d already forgotten that Mick was mad at him—for he gamboled over as frisky as a lamb.

“He’s not even me dog,” Mick muttered.

Lad sat, one back leg sprawled out to the side, tongue hanging from his mouth, and grinned up at him. He completely ignored Harry, his supposed master.

“The dog ’as a wonderful affection for ye,” Harry said brightly.

“Well, I haven’t for him,” Mick said. “Take the beast out to the courtyard and get the maids to clean me bed.”

“O’ course, o’ course,” Harry said, not moving. He cleared his throat delicately. “And Mrs. ’Ollingbrook?”

Mick swung on him. “What about her?”

Harry blinked. “Ah… I thought a nice walk about the place wi’ the babe might make ’er feel less cooped up.”

Mick snorted so loudly Lad cocked his head. “That woman isn’t goin’ anywhere until she bends to me will.”

“Then she won’t be joinin’ us for supper this evenin’?” Harry asked, hope dying hard in his hangdog eyes.

“Not unless she has a sudden change o’ heart,” Mick said sourly. “In fact both she and that hellion babe will be stayin’ in her rooms with only food for the babe until she makes up her stubborn mind to come sup at me table.”

Harry tilted his head back to study the ceiling.

“What?” Mick demanded.

“Well, it’s jus’ that I’ve noticed in dealin’ wi’ the fair sex that it sometimes does a man well to show a little kindness.”

“Have I not given her a bed and a room fit for a queen?” Mick asked softly, dangerously.

“Ye-es—”

“And have I not been most accomodatin’ o’ her?”

“Well—” Harry looked doubtful.

Mick sliced his hand through the air. “All I ask is that she sup wi’ me. No other wench has disobeyed me thus to me own face.”

“Aye, but most wenches ye be dealin’ wi’ are doxies or servant girls,” Harry pointed out in a reasonable tone. He took a step backward nonetheless. “Mrs. ’Ollingbrook is neither.”

For a moment Mick merely stared at his henchman. Jaysus, when had his life become so complicated that he took to pleading his case with Harry? He had Silence in his house. He had her where he wanted her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to turn his life upside down.

“Why can’t she live in me palace and be happy?” Mick muttered.

Harry shrugged massive shoulders. “Mayhap because she’s a woman. They do ’ave minds o’ their own, I find.”

“Me orders stand,” Mick declared. “She may not be a whore or a servant, but she’ll bloody well learn to obey me.”

Harry and Lad stared at him with strangely similar bloodshot brown eyes, sad reproach in both their gazes.

Mick flung out a hand irritably. “Get on with ye!”

Dog and man turned toward the bedroom door.

“And keep that dog out o’ me house!” Mick roared after them.

BY THAT NIGHT Silence was going quietly mad in her bedroom.

“He can’t keep me locked up here like some prisoner!” she muttered to Fionnula.

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said with admirable equanimity considering she’d been listening to Silence complain for most of the day.

Silence grimaced. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is so… so medieval. Who does Mickey O’Connor think he is? Some pagan god?”

“Oh no, ma’am,” Fionnula replied earnestly. “I don’t think he considers himself a god. Now a prince or even one of those sultans they have about in those heathen lands…”

“It’s thinking like that that makes him as arrogant as he is.” Silence paced to the windows. They were draped in lovely rose curtains, perhaps to hide the fact that they’d been boarded up. She could just make out a sliver of the street below if she applied her eye to a crack in the boards. “This is impossible! If he doesn’t care if I go mad from confinement, he should at least think of his daughter.”

Mary Darling whimpered as if in answer. Already this evening the little girl had thoroughly explored the room, been warned away from the fire a half a dozen times, and been rescued out from under the bed twice. Now she sat, fretfully playing with the spoon and dish leftover from her supper.

Silence’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the empty porridge dish. She’d told Fionnula that she could no longer accept her smuggled food—not after defying Mickey O’Connor this morning. Fionnula, Bert, and Harry were already in enough trouble because of her.

“Ye could come down to sup with him,” Fionnula pointed out cautiously.

Silence turned to glare at the girl. “Not as long as he orders me to do so.”

Fionnula ducked her head.

“I’m sorry.” Silence winced. It was hardly the girl’s fault that Mr. O’Connor was such a despotic beast.

Silence wrapped her arms about her waist. She’d already acquiesced to living with him. She was a lone woman with very little power in Mickey O’Connor’s palace. Refusing to dine with him really was the only way she could assert herself.

“It’s too much,” Silence muttered to herself and stomped out the door.

“What are ye about?” Fionnula cried as she scooped up Mary and hurried after.

“Ma’am?” Harry rose in alarm from the chair outside her room. Bert was apparently in disgrace—she hadn’t seen him since she’d escaped this morning.

“I’m going to have a word with the sultan,” Silence said with determination to them both. She turned and marched down the stairs before they could voice any more protests.

A moment later she opened Mickey O’Connor’s bedroom door with a jerk, bracing herself. It was with something of a letdown that she realized the room was empty.

“He’s off on his business,” Fionnula panted from behind her, Mary still in her arms. “They were all talkin’ about it at supper tonight. Come away now, ma’am. ’Twouldn’t do to be found in here.”

Silence ignored the warning, transfixed by the room. She’d been in here, of course, on that night nearly a year ago. He’d led her into this extravagantly decorated room, fed her, bid her enter his huge bed, and while she’d watched, had begun to unbutton his fine lace shirt. His long, elegant fingers had seemed to mesmerize her. She remembered staring, her mouth going dry with fear, as he’d bared his upper chest and then, his sardonic eyes locked with hers, he had lifted his arms, grabbing his shirt behind his back to draw it—

A sudden movement on the bed nearly made her scream. As it was Silence was unable to suppress a squeak of alarm. “What in God’s name is that?”

Fionnula peered around her. “Lad! Do get off the bed.”

An enormous dog raised its head, tiny eyes looking worried. The animal jumped clumsily to the floor and started for them.

Silence backed away quickly, ready to slam the door shut. “Is it dangerous?”

“Naw,” Harry said, “I’ve never seen Lad ’urt anythin’—unless ye count an old soup bone.”

“But he’s so big.” Silence eyed the animal worriedly. Lad was a none-too-clean fawn color, his little flop ears much too small for his massive head. She could see each rib on the dog’s side—as well as the muscles that moved beneath his tawny coat. A sudden thought struck her. “Mr. O’Connor has a pet?”

Fionnula scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know that I’d call Lad a pet. More like he just hangs around the place.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Lad’s me dog, actually.”

“But he sleeps in Mr. O’Connor’s bed?” Silence began skeptically, but at that moment the inevitable happened—Mary Darling caught sight of the dog.

“Gog!” she cried and bounced so hard that Fionnula set the baby at her feet.

Lad ducked around Silence and made straight for the baby.

“No!” Silence started forward to haul the animal back by the scruff of the neck—Lad wore no collar.

But before she could reach him, the animal stopped before Mary and wagged his tail tentatively as he looked down at her.

Mary chortled with glee and grabbed his muzzle with both her hands. “Gog!”

“Oh, my God,” Silence breathed, her hand hovering over the big dog’s neck. She’d throw herself on him to tear him away from her baby if she had to. She wrinkled her nose. Even if the beast smelled like a stable.

Lad stood still, save for his tail wagging ever faster. Mary had his jowls in her tiny fists, but the big dog didn’t seem to mind. As Silence watched he swiped the baby’s chin with an enormous tongue.

“Told ye ’e’s not dangerous,” Harry said proudly.

“He might not be a danger,” Silence conceded, “but he certainly needs a bath. He reeks.”

“Well, he does usually spend most of his time in the courtyard,” Fionnula admitted.

“Then what was he doing in Mr. O’Connor’s bedroom?”

“Lad has taken a fair likin’ to Himself,” Fionnula said, shrugging. “Even though it was Harry who rescued him from the bull-baitin’ pits.”

Harry nodded in agreement.

“Lad was a bulldog?” Silence asked in horror. The sport was a popular one, particularly among the poorer denizens of London, but Silence had always thought it terribly cruel.

“ ’E was bred a bulldog,” Harry rumbled, “but ’e were no good at it. Seems ’e were afraid o’ the bulls. I took ’im off a man about to drown ’im.”

“Oh,” Silence said softly. Lad was large and ugly and very smelly, but it seemed a shame to drown any creature, even an especially unbeautiful one.

As if he knew her thoughts, Lad sat and wagged his tail.

Silence placed her hands on her hips. “Well, no matter how he came here, one thing is for certain. This dog needs a bath.”

“D’YOU THINK HE’LL pay the tithe now?” Bran asked Mick that night.

They were tramping back to the palace in the company of Pat and Sean, four abreast down the middle of the street. Any they ran into in the dark made a wide berth around them.

“Aye,” Mick replied with satisfaction.

The owner of the Alexander, a large, round man with sallow, hanging cheeks, had gone a rather sickly green when he’d walked into his bedroom to find it full of pirates. He’d nodded vigorously to everything Mick had said to him, while clutching his banyan about himself like a frightened virgin.

“Then that’s done,” Bran said.

“Not quite,” Mick replied as they turned into an alley. They were nearly to the palace now, but he couldn’t help but feel that they were being trailed. Well, this was as good a place as any—and he had his men at his back. Mick flexed his arm, feeling the sheathed knife bound to his forearm. “He’s agreed to me tithe, but I don’t think he understands the error o’ his ways. We’ll be raidin’ the ship when it makes port.”

“Aye,” Bran began, nodding.

A shape suddenly dropped from above, landing just in front of the four men.

“Jaysus Christ!” Sean shouted, leaping back.

Mick had his knife already drawn and was looking around warily, watching to see where the other attackers might come from. Several yards back two shadows drifted into the entrance to an alley. Mick shifted, keeping both the attacker in front and the men behind in his sight.

The shape in front straightened and became a man. Mick squinted. The figure wore a harlequin’s motley and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather. Beneath the hat the upper part of his face was concealed by a black half-mask, the nose grotesquely long and curved.

In one hand he held a sword.

“The Ghost o’ St. Giles,” Pat whispered, crossing himself.

“We’re right honored,” Mick drawled. Pat might be superstitious, but the man before him looked real enough to him. “But yer barrin’ our path.”

The ghost cocked his head, eyes glittering behind the mask.

Mick’s eyes narrowed. “What do ye want?”

At that the ghost smiled and pointed to his eyes. Slowly his forefinger swiveled until it was pointed at Mick. The message was quite clear.

“Fuck that.” Mick lunged for him.

The ghost made an impossible leap, grabbing a balcony overhanging the alley. He swung himself up, nimble as an acrobat, and continued climbing up the side of the building.

“Jaysus,” Sean breathed. “I’d ’eard ’e could climb where no mortal man can.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Bran snapped. “Anyone with enough training and practice could do that.”

Sean looked doubtful. “Don’t think I could.”

“Nor I.” Pat backed a couple of steps, looking up the building’s side. “Couldn’t jump like that if me life depended on it. Were almost as if ’e ’ad wings, it were.”

“Aye.” Sean sounded admiring. “Right nimble ’e was, if ’e weren’t a ghost or phantom or some such. Think ’e were givin’ ye the evil eye, Mick?”

“No, I don’t,” Mick said shortly. He glanced behind him, but their followers seemed to have disappeared without making any move on them, perhaps made cautious by the Ghost. Uneasiness crawled up Mick’s spine. He could handle an attack against himself, but that wasn’t his weak point.

And the Vicar knew it.

Mick looked at Bran. “On the morrow we’re movin’ Mrs. Hollingbrook and the babe.”

Bran nodded without comment.

“Best we were back,” Mick said.

So saying he continued down the alley, though he didn’t sheath his knife again. His thoughts turned to the unexpected confrontation. The ghost wanted him to know that he was keeping a watch on Mick.

The only question was: why?

“ ’IMSELF WON’T LIKE this,” Bert growled. He’d returned from exile just in time to be caught up in Silence’s plans for Lad the dog.

Silence hitched Mary farther up her hip and tramped determinedly down the overdecorated corridor. “I can’t believe Mr. O’Connor enjoys having a filthy dog running about his house. Besides, you told me he wasn’t home.”

“Expected back any minute,” Bert said with gloomy relish.

Silence suppressed a shiver of alarm at that information. She was sticking to her guns, but all the same she wasn’t sure she wanted a repeat of this morning quite so soon.

She cast an apologetic glance at Bert. “We’ll act swiftly, then.”

She ignored Bert’s continued grumbles as she followed Harry toward what he’d assured her were the kitchens. Lad trotted along beside her, happily oblivious to his impending soapy fate, while Fionnula brought up the rear.

Silence cleared her throat. “Fionnula said that Mr. O’Connor had gone off on some kind of business.”

Harry glanced back at her. “ ’E’s talkin’ to a merchant ship owner.”

“Talking?”

Bert grunted. “More like explainin’ the facts o’ life to ’im—what?”

Harry had stopped short and turned to glare at his compatriot.

Bert shrugged, both hands palms up by his side. “ ’E’s a pirate. If she don’t know that by now she’s either a ’alf-wit or daft.”

Silence cleared her throat to get the men’s attention. “What do you mean by ‘explaining the facts of life,’ Bert?”

“ ’E gets a tithe, right?” Bert said patiently. “From every merchant ship that docks in London.”

“Every ship?” Silence raised her eyebrows.

“Used to be ’e ’ad a bit more competition,” Harry said judiciously. “But a couple o’ years ago Black Jack Wilde took a swim in the Thames—”

Bert tched. “Middle o’ winter it were, too. Didn’t find ’im ’til spring.”

“And Jimmy Barker went missin’, which meant most o’ ’is crew joined us.” Harry pursed his lips as if thinking, then cocked an eyebrow at Bert.

Who nodded. “They was about it. After that ’Imself became the biggest pirate on the Thames. So, yeah, every ship.”

She’d had no idea the extent of Mickey O’Connor’s empire. Silence pressed her lips together as she turned to continue down the hall to the kitchens.

Bert hurried after. “So this owner o’ the ship… er… er…”

“Alexander,” Harry supplied.

“Right ye are,” Bert said, “the owner o’ the Alexander ’as been remiss, as it were, in ’is tithe, so ’Imself ’as gone to see ’im and explain ’is duties to ’im.”

Silence snorted. “You mean he’s gone to threaten the poor man.”

“Bert’s right,” Harry said gently. “ ’E is a pirate.”

And with that flat statement they entered the kitchen. It was a big room, lined in light gray stone, an enormous hearth at one end. Two maids, sitting at a table in the middle of the room looked up at their entrance. A huge, stout man at the hearth swung around. He was entirely bald and the color of a well-cooked lobster, his front and lower half swathed in a not very clean apron.

“ ’Ello, Archie,” Harry said chattily. “This ’ere’s Mrs. ’Ollingbrook what ’as come down to give Lad a bit o’ a bath.”

Archie’s brow beetled ominously and the maids suddenly found the tabletop very interesting. “Ye know I don’t allow that there beast in me kitchen.”

Harry frowned, about to say something, but at that moment Mary Darling joined the conversation. “Down!”

“Shh, sweetheart.” Silence bounced the baby on her hip, trying to comfort her, but Mary’s face was growing as red as Archie’s.

Archie stared at the baby for a split-second, his face entirely blank, before he turned and rummaged in a cupboard.

“Down! Down! Down!” Mary chanted as Silence hugged her.

Archie loomed in front of them. “Sugar biscuit?” he asked gruffly and held it toward the baby.

Mary’s transformation was miraculous. She grinned, showing her four perfect teeth, two on the top, two on the bottom, and grabbed for the sweet.

“Thank you,” Silence said gratefully to the big man.

Archie shrugged. “ ’Spose ye can use the master’s tub for the dog. But ye’ll need to clean up afterward, mind.”

“Oh, of course,” Silence said hurriedly.

In a moment she’d settled Mary, her biscuit, and a tin cup of milk with Fionnula while Bert and Harry dragged out a big copper bathtub. Silence’s eyes widened at the sight. The orphanage had a small tin tub that she could just fit into, but she’d never seen a bathtub as magnificent as Mickey O’Connor’s.

Lad trotted around the room, sniffing at corners and being yelled at once or twice by Archie as the tub was filled. The maids—Moll and Tess—seemed to think bathing a dog to be a great lark. They giggled as they found soap and laid out cloths.

When everything was ready, Harry called Lad. The dog gamboled over, as happy as a lamb, and for a moment Silence had a twinge of guilt.

Then Harry tried to put the dog into the tub.

There was a curse, a bark, and a wild scrambling, and then Harry was down in a puddle on the floor and Lad was across the room, bone dry.

The maids dissolved into laughter.

Mary banged her tin cup on the table. “Gog!”

Fionnula had one hand over her mouth, attempting to control her laughter.

Even Archie’s thick lips twitched.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Harry,” Silence said breathlessly. She bent to help the guard up. “Are you hurt?”

Bert grunted. “What ye get for tryin’ to pretty up a cur.”

Harry glared at his compatriot. “I’m fine, ma’am.”

Bert snorted.

Harry stood and yanked on his waistcoat to straighten it. “Now ye jus’ come ’ere, Lad me boy.”

Lad rolled his eyes from a corner of the kitchen. He appeared to be trying to squeeze his body into a crack in the wall, or perhaps simply become invisible, but since he was quite a large dog, the task was impossible.

Harry advanced on the dog.

Lad trotted out of his path, his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

Silence bent down. “Here, Lad,” she called in a high, sweet voice.

Lad perked his ears and went to her, glancing anxiously over his shoulder at Harry.

“Now then, Harry,” Silence murmured soothingly as she fondled Lad’s misshapen ears, one of which appeared to be missing a piece, “if you take his back half very firmly and I lift his front…”

Harry grabbed, Silence lifted, and Lad was deposited into the bath before he quite knew what had happened. Immediately, he made an attempt to get out again, but Silence had had an idea that he’d try something of the sort and was ready.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said in the same soothing voice—the voice she’d perfected bathing small, reluctant boys at the home. “You’re not coming out until every speck of dirt has been removed from your hide.”

Lad seemed to recognize that tone. He sighed heavily, his ears drooping.

Half an hour later, Silence stood back and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. Her entire front was damp, her hair was half undone and she felt a trickle of sweat down her spine. Harry had lost his scarf and coat and the front of his waistcoat was dripping, the result of a premature shake on Lad’s part. Mary Darling had fallen asleep in Fionnula’s arms sometime during the proceedings, her half-eaten biscuit still clutched in her hand, and the maids and Archie were enjoying a pot of tea between them at the kitchen table. Apparently a dog bath was the most entertainment they’d seen in ages.

Silence eyed her charge critically. “What do you think?”

“That,” Archie said, “is one clean dog.”

“Certainly cleaner than ’Arry,” Bert muttered.

“Naw,” Moll drawled, “ye forget the bath ’e’s ’ad washin’ that dog.”

Both maids went off into peals of laughter.

Harry straightened his dripping waistcoat with dignity. “I do believe Lad is done,” he said to Silence.

Silence nodded. “Well, then, out you come, Lad.”

The dog didn’t need more urging. Lad scrambled from the tub in a tidal wave of water and then immediately shook, spraying everyone in the room.

The maids shrieked, Bert cursed, and Archie just grimaced in disgust.

“Well, then,” Harry said cheerfully, “now yer all as clean as me.”

Silence started to giggle before Lad shook again. The dog was grinning, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, and trying to run around the kitchen—except he kept skidding on the puddles of water, his rear end sliding to the side.

“Oh, dear, the floor is rather a mess,” Silence murmured. She crouched, trying to wipe up the lake with some of the cloths.

“What,” came a deep male voice, “is this?”

Silence froze, her hand still outstretched, clutching a damp, dirty cloth. Oh, dear Lord. Slowly she raised her eyes and found herself face-to-thighs with Mickey O’Connor’s extremely tight breeches.

“Ah…,” she started, with absolutely no idea of what she was about to say.

At the same time, Harry cleared his throat. “See, I jus’ thought the dog—”

“Enough,” Mickey O’Connor interrupted Harry in that same much too calm voice. “Take the babe, Fionnula, and put her to bed. Everyone else, out o’ me kitchen.”

Silence started to stand.

“Ah, ah,” Mr. O’Connor said. “Not ye, Mrs. Hollingbrook.”

She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O’Connor and leaned against his leg.

Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. “I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook.”

Silence lifted her chin. “You’re a pirate, Mr. O’Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet.”

He gave her an ironic look. “Aye, amazin’, isn’t it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded.” He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. “And me dog smells like a whorehouse.”

Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. “The only soap we could find was rose scented.”

“Aye?” Mr. O’Connor glanced at the dog. Lad looked back, obliviously adoring, his tongue hanging from his mouth. “Poor, sad beast. He’s lost his bollocks and don’t even know it.”

Silence blinked. She’d braced herself for shouting and anger, but so far Mickey O’Connor hadn’t shown either.

She watched as he spooned tea leaves into the teapot and crossed to the fireplace to fill the pot with hot water.

“D’ye take sugar?”

“Yes, please,” she answered.

He nodded and placed the teapot and teacup on the table before fetching a little bowl of sugar.

Silence looked at the lone teacup. “Aren’t you having any?”

Mickey O’Connor snorted. “I’d be drummed from the pirate’s guild if’n I were seen takin’ tea.”

Her lips twitched at the thought. “Then why make it for me?”

He looked at her, his eyes black and a little tired. For the first time she wondered how his “business” had gone that night. “I thought ye’d like it, Mrs. Hollingbrook. After all, ye must be near starved after two days with only the food Fionnula and the others could smuggle ye.”

Silence bit her lip. “I asked her to stop today.”

He cocked his head curiously. “Did ye now?”

Silence sat and poured herself a cup, adding a spoonful of sugar. She did like tea. When she sipped, the tea was quite good. She glanced up to find him propped against the kitchen cabinets watching her with a brooding air.

“Thank you,” she said. “How did you learn to make a good cup of tea when you don’t drink it yourself?”

His mouth tightened and he looked down at his boots. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t reply. Then he sighed. “Me mam was fond o’ tea when we could get it. I’d make it for her.”

His words were terse, but the picture he drew was sentimental. What a lovely boy he must’ve been to be so thoughtful of his mother. Silence frowned. She didn’t like thinking of him like this—as a vulnerable child, a loving son. It was much simpler to only think of him as a pirate.

“Yer tea is gettin’ cold,” he murmured.

She drank some more and his mouth softened.

“Tell me somethin’,” he said, his voice a deep, quiet rumble. “I saw ye once with the Ghost o’ St. Giles almost a year ago.”

“So you were watching me.” She set her teacup down.

Last fall she’d been caught in a riot in St. Giles and only escaped harm when the Ghost of St. Giles had saved her. She’d seen Mickey O’Connor across the street at the time and wondered why he was there.

He shrugged, unperturbed. “Aye, sometimes. Ye had me daughter after all.”

“Oh.” His explanation was rather deflating.

“D’ye know him?”

“Who?”

“The Ghost o’ St. Giles,” he said patiently. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He wore a mask the night he saved me from the rioters.”

“And that’s the only time ye’ve seen him?” His question was intent.

“I’ve seen him from afar, but it was certainly the only time I talked to him, although he never spoke to me.” Silence looked at him, confused. “Why do you ask?”

He shook his head, frowning absently. “No matter.”

Lad sighed loudly and slid down to lie on the floor.

Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog. “I should put him out in the courtyard.”

“But we just bathed him.”

He shot a rather frightening look at her from under his brows. “Aye, so ye did. Be a shame, I guess, to let him roll in the mud so soon.” He tilted his chin at her teacup. “Are ye finished?”

She took a last sip. “Yes.”

“Good.” He nodded and shoved away from the cupboard. “I’ll escort ye to yer room, then.”

They walked all the way back to her rooms in silence, Lad padding happily behind.

When they reached her door, Mickey exchanged nods with Harry, sitting outside, and turned to Silence. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Silence said, her hand on the doorknob. “And thank you for the tea. It was truly delicious.”

One corner of his mouth curved. “Me pleasure.”

She began to close the door, but he stayed it with one broad hand. “One more thing. Tomorrow ye and the babe are movin’ rooms.”

Silence blinked. “Why?”

“We were followed tonight,” he said, his eyes angry. “I want ye closer to me so I can keep an eye on ye m’self.”

She frowned over that alarming news as he turned and ambled gracefully away. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the end of the hall that she remembered something.

“Where will our new rooms be?” she called after him.

He cast an inscrutable glance over his shoulder. “Next to mine.”