Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(45)

Mickey O’Connor stood across the room by the fireplace, his back toward her. He was clad only in tight black breeches and jackboots, his upper body nude. His broad back was a smooth olive expanse, the muscles that delineated his shoulders and arms in firm, sensuous bunches. And he was singing, his voice a wonderful, soaring tenor. She’d never heard anything so beautiful in her life. How was it possible that Mickey O’Connor, a man with a soul as black as tar, should have a voice the angels would envy?

He half-turned suddenly and she saw that he cradled Mary Darling to his strong chest. The little girl’s pink cheek was laid trustingly against him, her eyes closed in sleep. His hand moved gently in her inky curls, stroking her soothingly.

Silence must have made some sound at the sight. His eyes flashed to hers, yet he never stopped singing.

“My father and my mother
In yonder room do lay
They are embracing one another
And so may you and I
So take me in your arms, my love
And blow the candle out.”
She felt her face heat at his words, even though they were part of his song. He didn’t mean them for her. They were merely the words to an old ballad.

She knew that, yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. His dark eyes seemed to be telling her something, something apart from the song he sang so beautifully. She lifted a hand to her belly and pressed to still the trembling there.

His song died on a low, liquid note and he continued to stare at her.

Silence cleared her throat, fearful her voice would come out a croak. “Is she asleep?”

He blinked as if he, too, were waking from a dream, and glanced down at Mary Darling. “Aye, I’m a-thinkin’ she is—she’s stopped fussin’ at me.”

Silence felt a huge smile of relief spread over her face. “She was fussing? Oh, how wonderful!”

He shot her a look, one eyebrow arching. “Ye’ve taught the child to bully me, too, now?”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily, embarrassed. Did he really think she bullied him? What a silly notion! “It’s just that she’d been so listless. If she’s well enough to fret, then she must be feeling better.”

“Ah.” He glanced down at the baby’s head, his look nearly tender. “Then I’ll rejoice when she starts bawlin’ again at the top o’ her lungs.”

“You should,” Silence said as she crossed to him and gently took the sleeping baby. Mary mumbled something and snuggled against her bosom. Silence examined her anxiously. Mary’s cheeks were pink, but they weren’t the hectic red of before and her little body no longer felt as if it burned. Oh, thank God.

Silence looked up grinning. “I know I will. Far better a screaming baby than one that’s too quiet.”

“Aye,” he said, watching them with a somber light in his eyes. “I can well believe ye.”

She gazed down at Mary’s sleeping head, avoiding his eyes. She should leave his room, but she was oddly reluctant to do so. “You have a beautiful voice.”

He snorted. “Do I now?”

She looked up at him, puzzled by his dismissive tone. “You must know you do.”

He grimaced. “Aye, I suppose I do at that. I spent enough time when I was a lad singin’ for me supper.” He caught her questioning look. “When there was naught in the cupboard, me mam would take me down to the street corner. She’d lay a handkerchief on the ground at our feet and we’d sing for pennies. It might take minutes or hours or all day afore we had enough to buy our supper.”

Silence swallowed. He talked of begging for food so cavalierly, yet she knew now that the experience must’ve scarred him terribly. “How old were you?”

He cocked his head as if considering. “I don’t rightly know. One o’ me earliest memories is going to the corner on a freezin’ night in winter.”

“How awful!”

He looked at her sardonically. “There be worse ways to make a penny.”

She bit her lip. There were indeed worse ways in St. Giles to make money. So many came to London from the English countryside, from Scotland and Ireland and even from the continent. There were far too many for the jobs available. She sometimes saw the women coming home in the morning after a night of walking the streets. And it wasn’t just women who walked the streets. There were children, too, of both sexes.

Silence peeked at Mickey O’Connor from under her eyelashes. He was beautiful, his eyes dark and sensuous, his mouth mobile, his hair thick and black. He would’ve been a lovely child—too lovely.

“You’re Irish,” Silence blurted out and then felt the heat rise in her cheeks. The Irish were numerous in London—and almost universally despised.

He smiled, dimples creasing the corners of his mouth. “Aye, me mam came from Ireland lookin’ for work. She was one o’ ten children to a widowed mother, or so she told me. I never met me Irish kin. She came over alone.” He bent his head as he donned the shirt he’d taken from the back of a nearby chair. “ ’Tis a far cry from yer own family, I’ll wager.”

She nodded. “My father’s family has lived in London for generations. My mother’s people came from Dorset and live there still, though we don’t often see them.”

“Ye’ve a sister and a brother, I know,” he said.

“Two sisters and three brothers, actually,” she replied, smiling a little. “I’m the youngest of six children. There’s Verity—she brought up Temperance and me when our mother died, then Concord who took over Father’s brewery on his death. Both are married with families of their own now. Asa is my next brother, but I don’t know exactly what he does—he’s something of the black sheep of the family. Temperance used to run the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children before she married Lord Caire, and Winter is the next youngest above me.”