Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(21)

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 f*ckin’ 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 f*cking 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.”