Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(90)

His chest grew cold. It might seem easy to her, but his money—his pirating—was the only thing he had to guard himself against want. Against starvation. Pirating had saved him when he was abandoned, fed him when he’d had no food, given him a life and a future when his had been destroyed. His mother might abandon him, Bran might betray him, even Silence might someday leave him, but at least he still had pirating. At least he had the money.

His money was his strength. Not even for this woman would he make himself weak.

He looked into her lovely, determined face. “No.”

She held his gaze a moment more and he thought he saw despair in her eyes.

Then she turned and left the room.

THE TEARS HAD dried on Silence’s cheeks by the time Michael came to her room that night. She watched from the bed as he laid an assortment of knives and a pistol on her dresser and began to arm himself.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He stilled as if he hadn’t known she was awake. “I’m takin’ Bran back to London and then I’ve some business to be attendin’ to. It won’t take long. Harry and Bert’ll guard ye and Mary here until I return.”

It was just before midnight. If he left now and rode to London, he would be about his “business” for most of what remained of the night. He probably wouldn’t return until well past daybreak tomorrow.

“What business?”

He paused for a fraction of a second—if she hadn’t been watching him she’d wouldn’t have seen it—then he shook his head once and Silence realized he wasn’t going to tell her.

Her heart shrank.

“I didn’t want to leave without sayin’ me farewells.” He strode to the bed with a small knife in his hand. “And I’ve somethin’ for ye.”

She looked at him and then at the knife, blinking sleepily. Did he expect her to become a pirate, too?

“Ye need to know how to defend yerself—defend Mary Darlin’, too.” His voice was gentle. “Come, I’ll show ye.”

He didn’t say that Harry and Bert would have to be dead if it came down to her defending Mary Darling herself, but then he didn’t have to.

Silence got out of the bed and stood before him in her chemise.

“Ye want to jab, quick and sharp like,” he instructed. “Don’t swipe, for yer knife is easily tangled that way.”

He demonstrated a lightning fast blow.

Silence looked at him dubiously. “I’m not that quick.”

“Ye will be with practice,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll bring back padded jackets and ye can learn how to use the knife on me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to stab you with a knife?”

“Aye,” he said seriously. “Ye need to know how to kill a man.”

She shook her head, folding her arms. She felt cold. “Even if you show me how, I won’t ever do that.”

He set his lips. “Then maim him. Thrust for the eyes, the throat, and the belly. That’ll back off even the most insane o’ men.”

She shivered. Was the Vicar insane? She supposed he must be to pursue Michael so blindly. To send someone to kill a woman with vitriol. If it meant protecting Mary Darling from such a beast, she would learn how to wield a knife.

“Here,” Michael said, offering her the knife. “Feel the weight. That’s Spanish, that is, made by a fine swordsmith.”

She didn’t ask where he’d gotten the deadly little knife. She took the dagger and saw that it was rather pretty. The blade had been engraved with flowers of all things. The hilt was curved and fitted her palm perfectly. She weighed it. The dagger was heavy for its size.

Michael stood in back of her and wrapped his right arm around her to hold her hand and show her how to thrust the dagger. With his left he held her by the waist and prompted her movements. After several minutes Silence was panting, but Michael was not even breathing hard.

“Ye can keep it in a pocket under yer skirts or in yer garter,” he said.

Silence wrinkled her nose. “Won’t it rub?”

His eyelids drooped. “It’d better not. I wouldn’t want yer tender skin chafed for the world.”

She turned in his arms, the dagger falling to the floor, and looked up at him. His black eyes were weary and she could see worry for her in his face. The blue-black stubble of his beard shadowed his jaw and his wide, sensuous lips were slightly parted. She reached up to stroke through his hair, feeling the locks curling around her fingers in welcome. He hadn’t told her what his business was in London, but she knew by his refusal to answer her question that it was something to do with his pirating—something dangerous. What if he were wounded—or worse, killed tonight? She might never see him again.

The thought sent an awful tremor through her belly. A world without Michael in it would be utterly dismal. Even if she lived apart from him, she wanted—always—to know that he was somewhere.

She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his warm mouth, tasting the wine they’d drunk at dinner.

She heard him mutter a curse, then he was sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed, placing her gently there.

“Why?” he whispered as he leaned over her, supported on one arm. “Why must ye be the one that haunts me dreams? I’ve seen ye weepin’ night after bloody night since the day I sent ye from me palace with yer dress half undone. If I had it to do over again, I’d cut me own right hand off rather than hurt ye so. Will ye never be able to forgive me, Silence love?”