Scandalous Desires

Chapter Six

Mick woke the next morning to the sound of Lad retching by the fireplace.

“Don’t ye dare!” Mick growled, lunging up.

Lad stood frozen on the hearth, tail between his legs, and tiny triangle ears flat to his head. The dog rolled his eyes at Mick.

Mick narrowed his. “Heave in me room, ye damned dog, and I’ll spit ye and serve ye to the crew tonight for supper.”

Lad whimpered and lay down.

Mick sighed and flopped back onto his pillows. A far cry this was from how he’d used to wake in his bedroom. No scented female flesh to warm his bed, only a sick mongrel on the hearth.

And the memory of his kiss with Silence Hollingbrook last night. Aye, and he hadn’t acted the gentleman, had he? No, he’d seized and taken and he would not regret his actions in the light of day, for the kiss had been sweet and hot and all that he’d imagined that a kiss with Silence would be.

Well, not quite all. In his lusty thoughts such a kiss hadn’t ended with her hitting him—nor stomping from the room. No, in his dreams, there’d been much more than that almost chaste meeting of lips. Enough to make his already stiff John Thomas twitch with interest.

He winced, feeling an ache in his arms from the unexpected swim last night. He needed to deal with the Vicar and soon, but first there was the matter of Silence Hollingbrook and her stomach. Harry had kept him informed and the maddening woman hadn’t eaten all yesterday—despite being smuggled food. Perhaps she thought she was protecting the servants or perhaps she was refusing food in some sort of ridiculous protest against living with him. Or perhaps she was simply not eating to irritate him—and if that were so, well it was certainly working.

Women were something best bought, he’d found. Pay them, fuck them, and send them away in the morning. That way avoided tears, recriminations, and feminine disappointment. Oh, and small things like being slapped across the face. Mick rubbed his jaw. But Silence wasn’t one of his whores, as Harry had pointed out. Mick couldn’t send her away. And he couldn’t let her starve herself—he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, including herself.

Which meant that much as it went against his instincts, he would have to take the risk of drawing her closer. Letting her in, just a tad, mind.

Mick O’Connor never admitted defeat, never backed down, but he might choose to change his plans, should he come head to head with a stubborn widow bent on hurting herself for whatever reason.

The course he’d originally taken with her was not working. Time to take a different tack.

SILENCE WAS DRESSING Mary Darling for the day when the door opened behind her.

The baby looked up and frowned. “Bad!”

Which was warning enough, Silence supposed.

She inhaled and turned to face Mickey O’Connor, biting her lip against the memory of that savage kiss last night.

He had closed the door behind him and was leaning against the wall, his frown nearly identical to Mary Darling’s. “Will she ever find another name to call me, d’ye think?”

“I don’t know,” Silence said with commendable calm. If he wouldn’t mention the kiss, well, then neither would she. “It might depend on if you ever call Mary something else besides ‘she.’ ”

He grunted and shoved away from the wall. “Fair enough.”

She watched him cross to the hearth and stare broodingly into the fire. Fionnula had gone down to fetch Mary’s breakfast, so they were alone for the moment. “What did you come for?”

“Forgiveness?” he murmured.

She blinked, not sure if she’d heard him correctly. “What?”

“Yer not what I expected, ye know.” The curl of his lips seemed self-mocking. “I thought ye’d sit in yer room and knit or do needlework. Come when called, go away when bidden. Upset me fine life not at all.”

Her lips firmed in irritation, but she merely said, “You obviously haven’t seen either my knitting or my needlework.”

“No,” he said. “I haven’t. There’s much about ye I don’t know.”

She shrugged, feeling restless—and hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since before yesterday. “Does it matter?”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “I think it does in fact.”

She stared at him, nonplussed. Why would he care to know her?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he shook his head. “Don’t let it bother ye. ’Tis me own worry and none o’ yers. I came with two purposes. The first is to give ye this.”

He strode forward and proffered an oilcloth-wrapped bundle.

Silence took it gingerly.

“Gah!” Mary stood and grabbed her arm, looking on curiously as Silence unwrapped a fine little book with gilt edges.

“Gentle,” Silence chided as the baby grabbed for the prize. “We must be careful. See?”

She opened the book and then gasped herself when she found an exquisite little illustration. Tiny men sailed, crowded on a ship with a square crimson sail on a sea with towering cobalt waves.

“D’ye like it?” Mickey O’Connor’s voice was gruff.

“It’s lovely.” She glanced up at him and was surprised to see an expression of uncertainty on his face.

He shrugged, the expression replaced with his usual insouciance. “I thought ye and the babe might find it entertainin’.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded curtly and moved to the door. “Me other purpose in comin’ was to ask ye to attend me supper tonight. No”—he cut her off as she was about to reply—“don’t give me yer answer now. Jus’… think on it will ye? Please?”

She stared. Had Mickey O’Connor ever begged anyone in his entire life?

He grinned, quick and rueful. “Oh, aye, the pigs’ll be flyin’ today, so I’ve heard.”

And then he was gone.

“Well.” Silence looked at Mary—just in time to rescue the beautiful little book from a curious taste.

Mary was still squawking her indignation when Fionnula came in the room a minute later, laden with a heavy tray.

“Oh, ma’am,” she said, “Himself has ordered breakfast for ye!”

And while Silence watched in bemusement Fionnula began setting out a sumptuous breakfast. She’d never have thought that Mickey O’Connor would give in. He was a pirate—a cruel, unyielding pirate—and nothing else.

Wasn’t he?

ISABEL BECKINHALL, BARONESS Beckinhall, stepped from the carriage that afternoon and immediately saw a half-naked wretch lying in the gutter.

She shuddered. “Amelia, darling, are you sure this is the place?”

“Quite sure,” Lady Caire said briskly. She exited the carriage with the help of a brawny and impossibly handsome footman, then waved a hand. “Disregard the less attractive sights.”

Isabel glanced about the awful neighborhood ruefully. “If I did there would be nothing at all that I might look at. Whyever did you situate the home here?”

Amelia sighed. “The orphans come mostly from St. Giles, so the area is inescapable. The building however is not. Unfortunately, we are still waiting for the new home to be completed. We hope in another month or so it will be.”

She sailed ahead to a miserable little door in an equally miserable building.

Isabel sighed and picked up her skirts to carefully follow. This was her first time attending the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children and she was beginning to think it would be her last. But Amelia had been quite persistent that Isabel join the syndicate. Amelia herself had been, along with Lady Hero Reading, one of the first lady patronesses of the home and she was rather enthusiastic about the endeavor.

Isabel glanced fondly at her friend. They were not close in age—Amelia would die a thousand deaths before she revealed her years, but since her son was in the latter part of his thirties, she couldn’t very well deny that she was well past her fifth decade. Isabel in contrast was but two and thirty.

Despite the disparity in their ages, though, they had much in common. Both ladies had married young and subsequently buried their older husbands. It was true that Isabel suspected from small hints here and there that Amelia’s marriage had not been nearly as happy as her own to her dear Edmund, but Edmund and the late Baron Caire did have one thing in common: they’d both been quite ridiculously rich. And while both titles and estates had been inherited after their deaths—in Edmund’s case by a distant, much younger cousin—both men had left their widows very well off.

Which was why Isabel was about to attend a meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children today. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of requirements to join the Ladies’ Syndicate, but wealth was definitely encouraged.

The door to the wretched house was opened abruptly by a stern-looking child of about thirteen. She made a very nice curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

Amelia permitted herself a small, approving smile. “Good morning, Mary Whitsun. Isabel, this is Miss Mary Whitsun, the eldest orphan at the home and a great help to both Mr. Makepeace, the manager, and his sister, Mrs. Hollingbrook, the manageress. Mary, this is Lady Beckinhall.”

Isabel smiled. “Mary.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, my lady,” Mary said carefully as she dipped into another curtsy. She darted a glance at Amelia who gave an encouraging nod.

With this approval, Mary smiled and suddenly her grave little face lit up. She had rich, dark hair and a lovely creamy complexion. Once she’d grown past her adolescent gawkiness, she’d be a beauty if Isabel was any judge.

“Won’t you come in?” Mary said in that same solemn voice.

They entered a hallway so narrow that the two could walk abreast only with difficulty. Isabel winced at the cracked and falling plaster on the walls. She could understand why a new building was needed.

Mary led them up two flights of stairs and into a windowless room.

“This is usually the children’s classroom,” Amelia said, “but Mr. Makepeace has graciously let us use it for our meetings once a week.”

“I see,” Isabel murmured, looking around at the cramped little room. Three other ladies were already in attendance, sitting in rather rickety chairs.

“I know,” Amelia whispered, as if reading her mind, “ ’tisn’t the most comfortable of places, but we—Lady Hero and I—thought that it best to meet where we could also immediately receive reports from Mr. Makepeace and also inspect the children, the premises, et cetera. Ah, Hero.”

Amelia broke off to press cheeks with a tall young woman. “Hero, this is Lady Beckinhall. You remember Lady Hero, do you not, Isabel?”

“Of course. Lady Hero’s cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood and I are friends.” Isabel dipped in a curtsy as the other lady did, as well. Lady Hero wore an elegant silver and lavender gown, setting off her gorgeous light red hair. “Congratulations on your recent nuptials, my lady.”

Lady Hero’s pale cheeks pinkened. “Thank you, Lady Beckinhall. May I introduce you to my sister, Lady Phoebe Batten?”

The girl was not much more than a child, a plump little creature with a squint. She was obviously terribly near-sighted, poor thing. Still, she smiled cheerfully as she dipped into a curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.”

Isabel nodded to the chit with a smile.

“And this is my dear husband’s sister, Lady Margaret—” Lady Hero began, gesturing gracefully to a pretty, dark-haired woman, when the door opened again.

“Goodness! What a dismal place!” A girlish voice exclaimed.

Isabel turned to see Lady Penelope Chadwicke blow into the room. Lady Penelope hardly ever simply entered a room—she was much too melodramatic for that. With glossy black hair, rosebud lips and pansy-purple eyes, she’d been declared a beauty the moment she’d come out, nearly three years ago. She wore a velvet cloak lined with swan’s down, which she immediately doffed and threw to the much plainer woman following her. Underneath the cloak, her close-fitting jacket was champagne brocade overembroidered in pale rose and gold thread. Her skirts were pulled back to reveal a petticoat embroidered to match the jacket, the entire ensemble probably costing several hundred guineas.

But then Lady Penelope was the daughter of the Earl of Brightmore, one of the richest men in England and she was rumored to have a dowry worth a king’s ransom.

“Is there tea?” Lady Penelope looked about the room as if a tea tray might be hiding in the corner, then pouted prettily. “Tea and cakes would be so nice. The carriage ride here was simply devastating. I think my coachman was actually aiming for the holes in the cobblestones. And St. Giles!”

For a moment Lady Penelope’s gorgeous eyes widened as if struck speechless by the horror of it all. Then she turned with a snap and addressed the lady following her, who was still struggling with the velvet cloak. “Artemis, you must go see about tea. I’m sure you’re just as weary by all of this as I. We need reviving!”

“Yes, Penelope,” Artemis murmured and retreated out the door.

“And cakes!” Lady Penelope called after her. “I do so long for some darling little cakes.”

“Yes, Penelope,” the other woman answered from the hall.

Isabel noted rather wryly that Lady Penelope might include her lady’s companion in her “weariness” but that didn’t stop her from sending the woman off on a servant’s errand. Amelia used the time to introduce the other ladies to Lady Penelope.

“Oh, Lady Hero, I’m not at all certain it is wise for the Ladies’ Syndicate to meet in this part of London,” Lady Penelope said, after the introductions were made. She gingerly lowered herself into one of the rickety chairs. “Is it quite safe?”

“I believe as long as we meet in daylight and bring along footmen as guards, we shall be perfectly safe,” Lady Hero said. “It wouldn’t do to visit St. Giles after dark, of course.”

Lady Penelope shivered dramatically. “I hear that there is a masked man dressed as a harlequin who roams these parts, stealing pretty women away to his lair where he ravishes them.”

“The Ghost of St. Giles is mostly a myth,” came a deep, male voice from the doorway.

Lady Penelope gave a little shriek and Isabel turned to see a tall young man standing just inside the room. He was entirely in black, save for his white shirt, with no ornamentation of any kind on his clothes. He held a round-brimmed hat in his hand and his unpowdered brown hair was clubbed back very simply. He’d frowned a bit at Lady Penelope’s shriek and the expression made him seem rather dour. As he glanced about the room, Isabel had the distinct impression that this man didn’t approve of any of the ladies.

Isabel smiled widely—with just a hint of wicked flirtation. “Mostly?”

He glanced at her, his eyes flicking over her form so swiftly that for a moment she thought she’d imagined the look. She was suddenly conscious of the low, rounded neckline of her dark emerald gown. Then he met her eyes, his face perfectly expressionless. “A man dressed as a theatrical harlequin does roam the streets hereabouts, ma’am, but he is harmless.”

The information didn’t reassure Lady Penelope. She shrieked again and made to slump in her chair as if in a faint, but then seemed to remember the fragility of the chair and thought better of the idea.

“Let me introduce you all to Mr. Winter Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children,” Lady Hero said hastily. She introduced the ladies in turn and Mr. Makepeace bowed shortly to each. When he came to Isabel, she rather thought his bow was more a nod of the head.

“Mr. Makepeace,” she drawled. Priggish gentlemen always managed to get her back up—and they were so very easy to tease! “How… interesting to meet you. I vow you look rather young for such great responsibility.” Despite his grave air he couldn’t yet be thirty. Certainly he was younger than she.

“I’ve managed the home since my father’s death two years ago,” he replied calmly. “And before that I was my father’s right-hand man for many years. I do assure you my years are quite sufficient to run this home.”

“Indeed?” She bit her lip to keep from smiling. He was so woefully serious! The man had probably never laughed in his life.

Lady Penelope’s little companion returned at that moment with several girls bearing trays of tea. She was a bit out of breath, for she was carrying a tray of dainty cakes herself, and seemed almost startled as Lady Hero took the time to introduce her to everyone present as Miss Artemis Greaves.

Mr. Makepeace’s expression softened—although he still didn’t smile—as he was introduced to Miss Greaves. “May I take that?”

Without waiting for her assent he took the tray of cakes and placed it on the sole table in the room.

Miss Greaves smiled rather shyly. “Thank you, Mr. Makepeace.”

“My pleasure, Miss Greaves,” he replied, his voice a pleasing rumble.

So he did know how to comport himself in the presence of a lady—when he chose.

“Will you give us a report on the home, Mr. Makepeace?” Amelia asked as she poured the tea.

He nodded and proceeded to give a very dry account of the expenses of the home and how the children were situated. By the end of his little speech even Lady Hero was nodding.

“Er, thank you, Mr. Makepeace,” she said when there was a little silence indicating he was finished. “Have you any suggestions as to how the Ladies’ Syndicate may benefit the home at the present?”

“We need money, ma’am,” he said without a hint of humor. “Everything else is extraneous.”

“Oh, but couldn’t we have little jackets made for the children? At least the boys?” Lady Penelope cried.

Mr. Makepeace looked at her. “Jackets, ma’am?”

Lady Penelope waved a vague hand. “Oh, yes! Scarlet ones—they’d look like little soldiers. Or perhaps lemon? Lemon is such an elegant color, I find.”

She smiled brilliantly at the home’s manager.

Mr. Makepeace cleared his throat. “Yellow also becomes dirty very easily. In my experience, children, especially boys, tend to run about and make a mess of themselves.”

“Oh, pooh!” Lady Penelope pouted. “Can’t you just keep them inside?”

Everyone looked at Lady Penelope. It was hard to credit, but she seemed quite serious.

Isabel felt a grin tug at her lips. She widened her eyes at the manager. “Yes, Mr. Makepeace, tell us why you can’t simply lock the little dears in their rooms?”

He shot her a quick, dark look that made her catch her breath.

“I’m sure Lady Penelope understands the impossibility of keeping small boys immobile and clean at all times,” Amelia murmured. “If that is all, Mr. Makepeace, we will not keep you further from your duties.”

“Ma’am. Ladies.” He bowed.

He was almost at the door when Lady Hero suddenly seemed to remember something. “But where is Mrs. Hollingbrook? I thought to see her today.”

Mr. Makepeace didn’t change expression, his body didn’t jerk or stiffen, but somehow Isabel understood that the comment had given him pause.

He glanced over his shoulder. “My sister is no longer residing at the home,” he said coolly and left the room before Lady Hero could make further comment.

Lady Penelope’s high, silly voice broke the silence. “Goodness! Surely he isn’t thinking of running the home all by himself? A woman’s touch is so important with children, I think, especially since Mr. Makepeace is a bachelor gentleman.”

Several other ladies offered their opinions, but Isabel let the conversation flow about her as she bent her head in thought. Mr. Makepeace’s gaze had met Isabel’s in the second before he turned away, and she’d realized something in that instant: Mr. Makepeace might not show it, but there were strong emotions churning under that cold exterior.

His eyes had been black with anger.

SILENCE SQUARED HER shoulders that night outside the dining room door. She’d left Mary Darling happily playing with Moll, the maid from the kitchen, with Bert as guard, and now she was about to join Mickey O’Connor for dinner. After all, he’d asked this time instead of ordered. There was still that small part of her that was convinced she was making a mistake. But then she reminded herself that it had been he who had made the first move, had held out the hand of peace.

Surely that counted for something?

She pushed open the door before she wasted another five minutes pacing and dithering. The room within was long and, not surprisingly, gaudily decorated. Watered silks lined the walls in purple, deep blue, and green. Silence snorted under her breath. How appropriate: Charming Mickey had covered the walls of his dining room with the colors of a peacock.

Down the middle of the room several long tables had been set end-to-end, almost like what she supposed a medieval dining hall might have looked like. Mickey O’Connor himself lounged at the far end of the table in a crimson velvet chair. He hadn’t looked up at her entrance, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking he hadn’t noticed her.

Silence began making her way down the line of tables. This end of the room seemed to be comprised of Mickey’s crew, quite a rough-looking lot. She’d gingerly passed the first couple of seated men when some type of signal was given. Suddenly all the pirates rose rather alarmingly, some so hastily their chairs crashed to the floor.

Silence blinked. “Ah… good evening.”

“Good evenin’, ma’am,” the closest man said gruffly. Belatedly, he snatched the greasy tricorne from his head.

Each man greeted her in turn as she walked past them, and even though they were all rather murderous looking, Silence smiled shyly at them. She found a seat just past the pirates. It was across from Harry and next to a little man with spectacles who she’d seen before in Mr. O’Connor’s throne room.

As she drew out the chair, the little man stood. “Not here, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry?” she asked, confused.

“He’ll want you with him,” the little man said nervously.

“That’s yer place,” Harry said and nodded his chin toward the head of the table.

Silence looked at the head of the table and of course Mickey O’Connor was watching her. They were all watching her.

Silence lifted her chin and made her way up the table, conscious that all eyes were upon her, until she stood beside the empty place at the right hand side of Mickey O’Connor. For an awful moment she thought he would ignore her, but then he uncoiled his long limbs and stood, pulling out her chair for her.

“Mrs. Hollingbrook,” he murmured. “I’m that pleased ye’ve come down.”

She nodded nervously and accepted the chair. She could feel his heat behind her as his hands took the sides of the chair and moved it forward to properly seat her. The scent of frankincense and lemons floated in the air, sensuous and somehow alarming. She thought she felt the brush of his fingers on her shoulder, but when she looked around he was already back in his seat.

He made a gesture and Tess and two other maidservants came in laden with trays of food. Incredibly—decadently—rich food. There were platters of thinly sliced pheasant, roasted rabbits, fish in wine, pigeon pie, fresh hothouse fruit, and enormous serving dishes heaped with oysters.

Mickey O’Connor seemed to sense her faint disapproval as one of the serving maids placed a bowl of oysters before them. He cocked a black eyebrow at her. “I’m proud of me table, Mrs. Hollingbrook. I like good food and me men work better for it.”

She pursed her lips. “The price of those oysters could feed a St. Giles family for weeks, maybe months.”

He smiled lazily. “Would ye rather I dined upon bread and water?”

“No, but—”

“Come,” he said in his deep, black velvet voice, “the oysters are already cooked and they don’t keep at all well. ’Twould be a pity to let them go to waste.” He picked up a shell and pulled the pearly, succulent flesh free with his fingers, holding it out temptingly.

Silence’s stomach growled and she flushed.

The corner of his mouth curved with roguish charm. “Tisn’t a sin to enjoy good food.”

“A special treat once in a while is one thing,” she said severely, “but you spend your life in constant excess. Does it not become boring after a bit?”

He smiled wolfishly. “Never.”

She reached for the oyster he still held, but he moved his hand back out of her way.

She looked at him coolly. “I’ll not eat out of your hand.”

His bold mouth compressed—he didn’t like her refusal, but all he said was, “As ye wish, me darlin’.”

He placed the oyster on her plate.

She bit into the savory oyster and contemplated telling him that she wasn’t his darling, but it seemed a waste of breath. Besides, the oyster really was terribly delicious. She licked her lips and glanced up. Mickey O’Connor was watching her, his black eyes narrowed, a corner of his mouth faintly curled. For a moment she felt caught in his gaze, her heart beating faster.

Then Tess bustled over with a tray of tiny tarts.

More dishes were set in front of Mickey O’Connor and without asking he served her something from each and filled her glass full of what proved to be sweet red wine. Silence ate and for several minutes she was quiet, her entire being concentrating on the food and filling her empty stomach, for although she’d had a lovely breakfast it hadn’t quite sated her after more than a day without food.

When she looked up again, she met Mr. O’Connor’s gaze. He was leaning back in his chair, his own food untouched, apparently content just to watch her eat.

She swallowed. “It’s all quite good and I enjoyed it very much, but…”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Your food seems very rich.” The pirates were still busily shoveling in their meal. Harry had got up and left the room, and now he was replaced with Bert. “It can’t be good for your constitution to eat such rich foods regularly. Aren’t you afraid of gout?”

Mickey O’Connor grinned and ran his hand down his flat stomach, his rings flashing on every finger. “Never occurred to me, to tell the truth.”

She shook her head. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. You do like to revel in excess, don’t you?”

He raised a mocking eyebrow.

She tilted her chin toward his hands. “Those rings, for instance. They’re so gaudy and they must be worth a fortune.”

He spread his hands before him, fingers wide. “Oh, two fortunes at the very least, but I only started wi’ one ring.”

She peered at them curiously. His extravagant, jeweled rings seemed such a part of Mickey O’Connor that she couldn’t imagine him without them. “Which one?”

“This.” He held up his right index finger. A round ruby so dark it was nearly black sat in a worn gold ring. “Got it on a raid with me first crew. In point o’ fact it were me only part of the raid, it were worth so much. I forfeited me portion o’ the gold for this here ring.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you take the money instead?”

He sat back and eyed her and she realized suddenly that his playfulness had vanished. He was quite serious now. “Because a poor man don’t wear a ring like this. Everyone who saw me wear this could tell: Charmin’ Mickey’s come into his own.”

Silence stared down at a lone pear remaining on her plate, thinking about his words. How odd. She’d never been rich—certainly not as rich as Mickey O’Connor was now—but she’d never really desired great wealth. Certainly there had been times when she’d looked longingly at a fan or heeled slippers in a shop window, but those were mostly fancies. Her everyday needs had always been quite satisfied. In contrast, Mr. O’Connor, by his own admission, had spent his childhood in poverty. Perhaps that then was his basic reason for flaunting the wealth he had. Once one had longed for something—hungered after it day and night—would that well of want ever truly be filled?

She shivered at the thought and looked up. “And the rest of your rings?”

“Oh, picked up here and there. This one”—he waggled his left pinky where a great black baroque pearl sat—“I found in the chest o’ a ship’s captain. He had a bit o’ a reputation, that one. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d got it piratin’ from the Frenchies.”

Mickey O’Connor grinned and popped a hothouse grape into his mouth.

She looked hastily away from the sight of him lounging like a sultan, and saw Fionnula sitting a little way down the table with Bran beside her.

“She worships Bran does our Fionnula,” Mickey O’Connor said quietly, following her gaze.

“Does he worship her, as well?” she asked, sharper than she meant.

Mickey O’Connor cocked his head, considering the matter. Then he shook it once. “I very much doubt it. Bran worships power and money and little else.”

“Not so very different than you, I suppose.” She wasn’t sure why the information that Fionnula’s sweetheart didn’t love the girl as much as Fionnula did him troubled her, but it did.

“Did ye look upon yer William like she does Bran?” he asked so quietly she nearly didn’t hear him.

Silence drew in her breath. He hadn’t the right to speak William’s name—he should know that. But she lifted her chin and met Mickey O’Connor’s black eyes. “I suppose I did.”

She’d thought to provoke him, but he merely leaned his head on his hand, studying her. “How did ye meet him, this paragon o’ a husband?”

She smiled at the memory. “He saved my shoes.”

“How?”

“I was out shopping with Temperance, my sister, and I’m afraid I got caught behind—I was staring in a shopwindow.”

His lips twitched. “At gloves and lace?”

“At a cream cake, if you must know,” she said with dignity.

He breathed a chuckle and she felt a flush start on her neck. “Father didn’t approve of sweets so we only had them on special occasions—Christmas and the like.” He was still smiling so she hurried on. “Anyway, I was rushing to catch up with my sister. I mustn’t have been watching because all at once there was a great miller’s cart right in front of my nose. If William hadn’t grabbed me about the waist and pulled me back, my shoes would’ve been quite ruined.” Silence sliced off a bite of the pear. “There was a puddle, you see.”

He reached for his ruby-red wine. “Sounds more like Will saved yer life rather than yer shoes.”

“The cart wasn’t that close.” Silence wrinkled her nose, because the cart had been rather close and the first thing William had done upon setting her on her feet again was to give her a scolding. Not that she was about to tell Mickey O’Connor that.

“I thanked him,” she continued, “and went off with Temperance and thought never to see him again. But then the next day, he came calling to ask Father for permission to court me.”

“And what did yer da say?” Mickey O’Connor asked as if he were greatly interested.

“Father was not at first pleased.” Silence saw a look cross Mr. O’Connor’s face and hastened to add, “William was a bit older than me, you see.”

“How much older?”

Silence poked at the half-eaten pear. “Fourteen years.”

She looked up to see Mickey O’Connor watching her and for the life of her she could not read his black eyes.

“It’s not such a great age difference as all that,” she said and heard the defensive note in her own voice.

“How old were ye?”

“Eighteen,” she muttered, then said louder, “He sailed very soon thereafter, but before he left he brought me a posy of violets.”

“He didn’t get ye the cream cake ye were moonin’ over in the bakery window?”

“I wasn’t mooning,” she said indignantly. “And, no, whyever would he buy me a cream cake? It’s a gift for a child.”

“It’s what ye wanted,” he retorted.

“Violets are much more suitable.” She frowned. “While he was away at sea he sent me wonderful letters from his travels, with all sorts of descriptions of the foreign places he saw. Then when he came home he would call upon me. It was so lovely,” she said dreamily. “William would take me to fairs and puppet shows.”

“And then?” His voice was expressionless.

She shrugged. “I married him. I was one and twenty by that time so Father would not have been able to stop me. But I wanted his blessing and he gave it to us. He said that William had shown his devotion for three years and that he was satisfied that he’d make me a proper husband.”

She paused, but Mickey O’Connor didn’t say anything.

She looked down at her plate. She’d eaten the pear as she talked and she no longer felt hungry. The empty desperation was gone—all that was left was the vague queasiness from having overindulged. Some of the pirates were laughing now as they finished their meal, while Mr. O’Connor’s little secretary had opened a book beside his plate and was making notes as he ate.

“We were happy,” she said slowly. “We lived in Wapping, by the ships. I would go to the docks and watch the tall ships come in, looking for the Finch, even when I knew she wasn’t expected back for months. And when she did dock”—she closed her eyes, remembering—“William would come to see me first thing. I always ran into his arms. We were happy. So happy.”

“And yet when ye needed him most he didn’t believe ye,” she heard him murmur. “He didn’t listen to ye.”

“I only needed him to believe me because of what you’d done,” she pointed out, but her voice lacked heat.

He didn’t reply.

She wiped her cheeks. Where last night she’d felt rage, now all she held inside was a deep sadness. “Is that what you think? That because he didn’t believe me, because he didn’t listen to me, he must not have loved me? That our happiness was but a sham?”

She stared at him, but he merely took a drink of his wine, watching her.

Had her happiness been a sham? At the time she hadn’t thought so. Life with William had been perfect, it seemed. He was away for long periods, true, but when he did come back it was like a honeymoon every time.

She frowned, troubled by the thought. What would her marriage have been like if William hadn’t been a sea captain? If they’d lived together day in and day out like most married couples?

Silence heaved a sigh and looked around the table. No one was paying them any mind—although she suspected that was more because of Mickey O’Connor’s presence than that they hadn’t noticed her tears.

She turned back to Mr. O’Connor. “Where are your women?”

His mouth curved slightly. “What women?”

She waved a hand, wondering if she’d drunk too much wine with her meal. “The women you always have. Your… your whores.”

He took a sip of wine and set down his glass. “Gone.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Oh.”

“Are ye disappointed?”

She bristled. “What do you know of how I feel or think?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he waved a youth over. The boy held a tray of sweets. Mickey O’Connor’s hand hovered over the selection before he chose something with a candied cherry on top. He turned back to her with the sweet in his hand. “That’s the fascinatin’ thing about ye, Silence, m’love. I know what me men will think afore I tell them we’re raidin’, what me whores will think at the end o’ a night, even what Lad will think about tomorrow—mostly me bed and a nice stew bone. But ye—ye I cannot fathom. I look into yer pretty green-brown-blue eyes, and I haven’t the tiniest idea what yer thinkin’ about. What ye truly feel.”

Silence stared at him in wonder, then blurted, “Why should you care?”

“That,” said Mickey O’Connor, holding the sweet to her lips, waiting while she accepted it into her mouth, then smiling almost as if he could taste the melting sugar on her tongue himself, “is a very good question.”