Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(102)

Mick bellowed, lunging at Charlie, but he was knocked to his knees by the soldiers surrounding him.

“Will ye allow the kidnappin’ o’ a lady?” Mick demanded of the soldiers. They’d been simply standing there as if blind and deaf to the outrage being played out in front of them.

Charlie laughed. “They will if properly paid. This lot isn’t like Trevillion’s dragoons—they like gold in their hands, and never mind who gives it. Now, remember this as they tighten the noose around your neck, son: I’ll be f*cking your woman even as you’re breathing your last.”

And with that the Vicar motioned to his men and simply walked away. Silence gave Mick one last horrified glance, still struggling in the Vicar’s grasp, and then the Vicar jerked her around.

The soldiers were manhandling Mick into the cart now. The chaplain studiously looked the other way. They’d all been bribed by Charlie, there’d be no help here. His men planned to rescue him at Tyburn, but if they did, no one would help Silence.

His life meant her death.

His death meant her life.

“Go!” he shouted at Bert and Harry. “Go tell Winter Makepeace what has happened. Tell him to take me men and get her back. Tell the crew to belay any other order. D’ye understand? Nothin’ stops them from rescuin’ Silence!”

The cart started and Mick craned his neck to see Bert helping Harry up and both men taking to their heels, Harry lagging badly. Bert had been with Mick for over five years, and had in that time served him well. But Bran had served Mick well, too—until the day the boy had betrayed him. Mick was going to his death. He had no way of repaying Bert for his loyalty. What if Bert decided simply to run away? Mick would only know if his men showed up at Tyburn as originally planned.

And Silence would pay the price.

Dear God, let him hang.

The cart ride was a trip through hell. The cart rocked into Oxford Street and they were already waiting. People lined the streets, calling to him, some in sympathy, some in derision. They were three and four deep, packed as full as the street would allow. Mick stood, head held high, feet braced wide apart so he wouldn’t stagger as the cart began its journey through London to Tyburn. A young girl threw a wreath of flowers into the cart at his feet and Mick stared down blindly at them. He was notorious in London, and there were those among the poor who thought him something of a hero.

A hero, he who had done naught but steal all his life.

Others heckled and threw rotting fruit and worse. He hardly noticed. Where was Silence now? God! Was the Vicar raping her, extinguishing that sweet, hopeful light in her eyes? He wanted to kill at the thought. To wreak bloody mayhem. But he was tethered like a wild animal in a cart.

They stopped at a tavern on the outskirts of London so that he might buy a last drink. And Mick did, praying as he drank that he wouldn’t be rescued. Let his death be price enough for Silence. He knew what the Vicar did to women in his power. He’d watched his mother weep for what the Vicar had made her do.

Let Silence live. Let her be happy.

Finally, finally, the tall Tyburn gallows came into sight, the distinctive triangle top foreboding against the gray sky. Wooden platforms had been built to one side with viewing seats, but the majority of the crowd milled about on foot. Mick saw a woman with a tray of pies on her head, steadily making her way through the mass of people. She was shadowed by a pickpocket who took advantage of her customers while they paid for the pies. A pack of boys with several dogs ran alongside the cart, shouting. Farther on, a juggler entertained a small circle, handily tossing a man’s hat, an orange, a knife, and a posy of flowers into the air. He was quite good, but a group of drunken apprentices to the side were calling insults anyway.

Mick was grimly amused to see that his rescue plan would’ve most likely worked. The cart had to stop again and again as the crowd pressed around it, struggling to catch a glimpse of him. Hands reached inside, pulling at his coat, his breeches. A piece of fabric from his clothes would make a nice souvenir of the day—one that could later be sold to ghoulish collectors. There were soldiers to be sure, dozens on horseback, but the milling people separated the soldiers from the cart.

The cart drove right up to the gallows with no sign of his men and Mick at last breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they had gotten Bert’s message. Perhaps even now they and Makepeace were rescuing Silence.

Dear God, he prayed so.

Mick descended the cart and was led up the gallows steps as the chaplain murmured prayers. The crowd was loud, a yammering, shouting, mass of mindless idiots.

Mick nodded to the hangman, a tall, bent figure, and handed him a guinea. The hood was put over Mick’s head and his legs tied together. He felt the heavy noose drape over his shoulders and then tighten. He breathed in and out, calm and steady, his breath hot under the hood.

A lever was pulled and he dropped into nothingness.

His mouth opened wide, gasping for the air that could not enter his throat.

He spun, jerking involuntarily as stars lit in the darkness behind the hood. He was dying, his body painfully fighting the inevitable. His ears rushed with incomprehensible noise and he suddenly saw Silence’s face, beautiful and as clear as day.

And then he hit the ground.

He lay there, stunned, taking deep, grateful breaths as someone loosened the noose around his neck. He didn’t know if he were dead or alive until the hood was pulled from his head and he saw the Ghost of St. Giles.