Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(44)

Mick sighed. “In with ye, then.”

Lad’s jaw dropped open in a grin and he happily capered into the palace.

“How were ye ever a bull-baitin’ dog?” Mick muttered to the animal as they tromped through the house. “The bulls must’ve laughed themselves silly when ye were thrown in the pit.”

Lad panted beside him happily, not a thought in his boneheaded brain.

They reached the upper floors and Mick strode down the hallway quietly. Bert was dozing outside Silence’s room, but straightened hastily as Mick neared.

“Are they awake?” Mick asked softly.

Bert blinked sleepily. “Fionnula left jus’ a minute ago to fetch some tea. I ’aven’t ’eard a peep.”

Mick nodded and entered his room, shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat. He preferred the freedom of just his shirt in his own home. He crossed to the connecting door and cracked it carefully, peering in. Silence lay on the bed, her form still, save for the slow rise and fall of her chest. He was about to shut the door again when a squeak came from the cot on the far side of the bed.

Mick was across the room in a second.

The child lay on her back, her eyes open, yawning sleepily. She saw him and her tiny pink lips trembled, her mouth turning down.

Mick frowned at her. “Hush.”

His admonishment had the opposite effect from what he intended. Her mouth opened and she let out a fretful wail.

Mick glanced at the bed. Silence hadn’t moved at the sound. She was exhausted from hours of nursing the brat. Fionnula had left the room and might not be back for some time, and Bert would be very little help.

Mick scowled at the toddler. “What d’ye want?”

She sobbed and lifted her arms to him.

He blinked, taken aback. Surely she didn’t want him. But another wail gave him very little choice.

He lifted the little girl from the cot, bringing her close to his chest as he’d seen Silence do. She was as light as feather down from one of his fine pillows. His chest wasn’t as soft as Silence’s, but the baby didn’t seem to mind. The fretful sounds stopped as she stuck a finger in her mouth and regarded him with wide brown eyes. Her eyelashes were spiked with tears, making them dark and long.

She’d be a beauty someday, he thought dispassionately, someone would have to guard her against the men who would be drawn to her. They’d swarm around her like bees to honey, wanting to lift her skirts, wanting to dishonor her, little caring of her feelings or who she was as a person. She’d be a piece of flesh to them, not a girl. Not someone’s beloved daughter.

He scowled again at the thought.

The child whimpered, her face crumpling, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

“Hush now,” Mick whispered.

Silence was still asleep. He crossed to his own room and entered, holding the baby. He bent to set her on the bed, but she clung to his fine lawn shirt, rumpling it, and sobbed.

“Hush away, sweetin’,” he whispered. What did she want? He picked up a jeweled snuffbox lying on his dressing table and showed it to her.

She batted it away irritably and smashed her little head into his chest, still sobbing. He stared down at her, perplexed. She was so loud, so stubborn, and yet he could feel the delicate bones of her little ribs through her chemise. She was so small, so fragile, so easily hurt.

He walked to the fireplace and showed her in turn the items on the mantelpiece: an alabaster vase, a pink and white shepherdess, and a curved golden dagger that had once belonged to some Ottoman lord. She didn’t seem very interested in his treasures, but she quieted a bit, still rubbing her face against his shirt. She’d ruin it soon if he didn’t take it off. Her mouth opened suddenly in a wide yawn.

And he found himself singing to her softly, the words coming to him as naturally as breathing.

“Take me in your arms, my love
And blow the candle out.”
Chapter Eight

Well, a bird that turned into a woman startled Clever John very much, but he kept his hand about her neck as he examined her. She was young and lithe, her face lovely and unlined, and her hair waved gently about her head in every color of the rainbow.

He plucked the candle wax from his ears and said, “What manner of being are you?”

The woman laughed merrily. “My name is Tamara. I am daughter to the dawn and sister to the four winds. Let me go and I shall grant you three wishes.”…

—from Clever John

Silence woke from a dream of a singing angel. He’d been tall and stern—like an angel carved in the door of a gothic church. An otherworldly being of great virtue and little sympathy. But his voice had been low and sweet, warming her from within like hot honey, making her bones liquid with relaxation—even though she’d known that the angel was a dangerous being from another world. That she ought to keep on the alert.

For a moment she lay still in the big bed, blinking sleepily, loath to move.

And then she realized that the angel’s song hadn’t stopped on her waking.

Silence sat up. The tantalizingly beautiful voice was coming from the half-open door to Mickey O’Connor’s room.

She rose, drawing a shawl about her shoulders and glanced at Mary Darling’s cot. It was empty, but she felt no alarm. She thought she might recognize that voice. Moving as quietly as she could she crept to the connecting door.

The sight within made her draw in her breath.