Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(51)

“So delicate, so buttery,” he crooned to this fascinating woman. “Green and rich and smooth, but with a tiny bitter taste on top as if to keep yer interest.”

She swallowed and licked her lips. “It’s rather good.”

He laughed breathlessly. Have care, part of his brain whispered. This way only leads to pain. But his cock was pressing hard against the placket of his breeches and he wanted to take her hand and draw her away to his rooms and keep her there until she learned to scream in pleasure.

Until she screamed his name and no other.

“Yes, rather good,” he imitated her tones gently. “Well worth the trouble o’ the thorns and the prickles to reach that sweet, meltin’ center, I think.”

Chapter Nine

Now, it’s well known that an offer of three wishes must be carefully considered, lest the wrong thing be wished for. Clever John thought on the matter for some time, while he held Tamara’s soft neck in his broad hand.

Finally, he looked at her and asked, “Must I make my three wishes all at once?”

She grinned, as quick as a sprite. “Not at all. You have merely to call my name and I will come to grant a wish.”

He nodded and slowly unwrapped his hand from about her neck. “I wish for a kingdom ten times the size of my uncle’s.”…

—from Clever John

Silence savored the exotic taste of the artichoke as she listened to Mickey O’Connor’s deep, velvet voice talk about creamy centers.

She swallowed and looked down at the artichoke petals piled neatly on the side of her plate. Her center certainly felt like it was melting, growing soft and wet just from the rasp of Mr. O’Connor’s voice. Why should a man already devilishly handsome also have a voice that could charm birds from the sky? It simply wasn’t fair. And, goodness! Surely he didn’t mean what his words conjured in her too heated mind? Silence took a hasty sip of red wine, casting about desperately for something—anything—to say.

“Did your mother name you Mickey?” she asked.

He blinked as if he were startled by the change of subject matter.

“I… I mean, well…” She inhaled, gathering her thoughts into a semblance of order. “It’s from Michael, isn’t it? Did she christen you Mickey or Michael?”

His mouth twitched as if he knew she was desperately trying to break the tension between them. “Well, now, I doubt very much that holy water ever touched me infant head, but me mam did name me Michael, sure enough.”

“It’s a lovely name, Michael.”

“Is it, now?” he asked skeptically.

She nodded, tearing apart a piece of bread. “Saint Michael is one of the archangels. He bears a sword and leads the army of God.”

“A militant fellow, then.”

She nodded. “In the Book of Revelations he battles the Devil and all his minions and they are thrown out from Heaven.”

Mickey’s lips pursed, his dark eyes sardonic. “Not so very like me.”

“I don’t know…” Silence frowned. “After all, Saint Michael must be very hard, very fierce. He’s a warrior who metes out God’s justice. He did defeat the Devil, after all. In some ways he must be not unlike the Devil.”

He chuckled.

Silence glanced up, horrified. “Is that blasphemy?”

He shrugged. “Ye ask the Devil to point out blasphemy?”

“I told you, you aren’t the Devil at all,” Silence muttered distractedly. “In fact, you may just be a very frightening angel.”

He threw back his head and laughed at her earnest statement, drawing surreptitious glances from his pirates.

He grinned at her when he’d calmed. “Don’t matter. I’m not the one to judge blasphemy.” He leaned back in his chair, cocking his head to study her. “Besides, ye know that given the chance I would’ve fought on the other side o’ yer Saint Michael.”

“Would you have?” she asked, serious despite his laughter. A week ago she wouldn’t have questioned his assertion that he was the devil. Now she wasn’t so certain. “Your mother must not have thought you so terrible. After all, she named you after a saint, not a devil.”

He frowned.

It was her turn to eye him. “Unless she was naming you after someone else? A relative, maybe? Perhaps your father?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Then who?”

“No one to me knowledge.” He looked away from her as if bored with the conversation, yet his fingers gripped the table tightly. “She mightn’t have had a reason.”

“Perhaps she named you with the hope that you would be a fierce protector like Saint Michael.”

He flinched. It was a small movement, hardly noticeable, but Silence felt as if she’d hit him. She reached out a hand to him before she could stop herself, laying it on his sleeve.

He stared down at her hand as if mesmerized by the sight.

“If that was why she named me,” he said low, “then she was sorely disappointed.”

“Michael,” she whispered, whether in apology or question, she did not know.

His Christian name was somehow terribly intimate upon her lips. It suited him much better than Mick or Mickey. An angel, both terrible and violent, but also with the possibility of redemption. Saint Michael.