Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(14)

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.

Chapter Three

The king roared with royal rage and called his three nephews.

“Whomever of you can find this nighttime thief shall be my heir!” cried the king.

Well the nephews all looked at each other and then they each gathered weapons and settled themselves beneath the cherry tree to wait for night and the thief….

—from Clever John

Silence’s third meal of the day came just after two of the clock the next afternoon and from a quite unexpected source.

“Mum’s the word, mind,” Bert said gruffly, laying his finger aside of his nose.

Silence didn’t even have time to thank the guard before he hurriedly stomped from the room.

She blinked, rather bemused at the bounty she’d received from Mickey O’Connor’s servants. She’d never thought that the pirate’s own people would defy him to bring her food. Uneasily she wondered what Mr. O’Connor would do if he found out about the underground rebellion against his orders not to feed her.

Shaking her head, she opened the rather grimy handkerchief Bert had thrust into her hands and contemplated the contents: three walnuts, a crumbled bit of pigeon pie, and a smashed cake with pink icing. Earlier she’d been given a slice of gammon and a muffin from Fionnula, and a scandalously out of season plum and a duck’s wing from Harry.

The outer door to the room began to open and Silence hastily shoved the kerchief and its contents beneath a pillow on the bed. She turned, half-expecting to see the pirate himself, but it was a younger man who faced her. He was quite good-looking—nearly as handsome as Mickey O’Connor, but much more solemn, a bit shorter and only about twenty years old, if that.

The young man looked startled to see her as well. “Ah… er, I was looking for Fionnula.”

“Oh,” Silence said. “You must be her friend.”

He blushed at her blurted words and looked suddenly even younger.

“I’m Mrs. Hollingbrook,” she said to set him at ease. “Fionnula has gone down to fetch some hot water for Mary Darling’s bath.”

He nodded curtly. “I’ll just be going.”

“She’ll be back soon,” Silence said. He really did seem ill at ease. Perhaps he wasn’t overly used to talking to outsiders? “Why don’t you wait?”

“Ah…” He blinked, glancing past her. “Well, I—”

Suddenly he darted around Silence and scooped Mary Darling up. “Mind the hearth, lass. ’Tisn’t safe for pretty little fingers.”

“Goodness!” Silence hadn’t noticed Mary near the fire, but the toddler had been quite inquisitive this afternoon. Mary had soon bored of remaining in one room and had been fretful and restless since noon.

Silence looked at the young man gratefully. “Thank you, er…”

“Bran,” he said, smiling down at Mary Darling. “Bran Kavanagh.” The little girl usually protested mightily at strangers, but she seemed charmed by Bran, looking curiously into his face.

Silence had to admit that when he smiled he was quite dashing. “She likes you.”

“Aye.” He fished a bit of string from his pocket and tied it in a loop before deftly threading it through his fingers and showing Mary the resulting cat’s cradle. “The little ones often do. My mother had a dozen children and I looked after the ones younger than me.”

“You’re Irish?” His accent wasn’t nearly as strong as Fionnula’s or Mr. O’Connor’s.

He glanced up warily, a lock of auburn hair falling over his forehead. “Bred and born right here in London, but, aye, both my mother and my father were from Ireland. Father was a weaver in Spitalfields.”

“What happened—” Silence started, but Fionnula came in the room carrying a kettle of steaming water at that moment.