But what Mickey O’Connor had done did not seem particularly sinful. It had actually been rather wonderful. He’d gripped himself with casual certainty. Obviously he’d performed this act before. She clenched internally at the thought. Did he not have enough women to satisfy him? Or was the act particularly pleasurable for him?
Dear God. She ached, wanting something that she knew was a sin.
Wanting a man who was sin itself.
“THE OWNER OF the Alexander has paid his tithe,” Bran said later that day.
“Has he?” Mick replied disinterestedly.
He’d not seen Silence since he’d sent her away this morning, but their kiss haunted him. Even after taking care of his lust, his flesh still demanded her. He smiled wryly to himself. A kiss. A simple kiss and he was panting after Silence.
“Mick?”
And forgetting where he was it seemed. Mick glanced at his lieutenant. “Ye’ll have to repeat yerself, Bran, me lad, I’m afraid me head is in the clouds.”
“Your head has been in the clouds since you brought Mrs. Hollingbrook here,” Bran said in a voice that cracked at the end of his sentence.
Mick had been sitting in his desk chair, his long legs carelessly flung over the arm. Now he slowly straightened and let his booted feet hit the floor heavily. “Have ye somethin’ ye wish to say to me?”
The boy held his gaze—a feat that many older and brawnier men had failed to do. Mick noticed that Bran’s jaw was darkened with his beard. A year or so ago, one could hardly make out the fuzz on Bran’s cheeks. His shoulders seemed heavier, too—and was he an inch taller? Perhaps it was past time Mick stopped thinking of Bran as a boy.
“You always told me that a man must make his decisions with his head, not his cock,” Bran said. “You said that a man entangled by a wench couldn’t think straight. That he lays himself open to misstep and misstep leads to ruin.”
Mick tilted his head, studying Bran thoughtfully. “Why, Bran, me lad, I had no idea ye’d taken me words so to heart.”
Bran merely stared at him, looking a little sullen. “She’s distracted you.”
Mick felt a prick of irritation. “And what o’ yer fair Fionnula, now? Hasn’t she caught yer cock and yer attention?”
“No.”
“No?” Mick laughed. “Come, Bran, ye needn’t lie to me. Our pretty Fionnula loves ye true.”
“She might,” Bran said coldly, “but that doesn’t mean I love her.”
Mick narrowed his eyes. “Then ye’d give her up, were I to order ye to?”
“Aye.”
“And if I told ye to bring her to me bed?” Mick asked softly. “Would ye bring the lass and sweetly hand her over to me?”
“In a thrice,” Bran said stubbornly. “Is that what you want?”
Mick felt his mouth curve. “Oh, not at the moment, no, but I am that glad to hear ye’d whore out yer sweetheart should I want her. Such loyalty is more than a man should expect.”
Finally Bran showed unease. A mottled red flush rose on his neck. “It’s what you asked for.”
“Was it?” Mick asked gently. “I wasn’t exactly sure.”
For a moment Bran stared at Mick, some kind of emotion working behind his features.
Mick watched him thoughtfully. They were all on edge after the deaths of Sean, Mike, and Pat, but something more seemed to be bothering Bran.
Mick came to a decision. “I want ye leadin’ the next raid.”
Bran’s eyes widened in shock. “You’ve never let anyone lead but yourself.”
“Aye, and perhaps it’s time I did,” Mick said. “Ye aren’t tryin’ to back out now, are ye?”
“No! I’d be happy to lead in your stead.”
“Good,” Mick said. “Ye’ll need to make a plan and report back to me on it, hear?”
A grin split Bran’s face. Suddenly he looked more like the oversmart scamp Mick had taken on so long ago. “Aye, Mick!”
He was out the door in an instant.
Mick chuckled to himself. He should’ve given Bran the responsibility months ago. Well, at least he’d done so now.
The door opened again and Harry’s ugly mug appeared. “Mr. Pepper would like a word.”
Mick nodded. “Send him in, then.”
Harry made to leave, but Mick called, “Harry?”
“Aye?”
“How’s the lass?”
Harry’s broad face relaxed into a grin. “Mrs. ’Ollingbrook sent down for more vittles this afternoon—the babe is eatin’ like a starvin’ wolf cub.”
Mick sat back, feeling like grinning himself. “She’s better?”
“Oh, aye,” Harry said. “She’s been chasin’ Lad ’round the room and even Bert ’as smiled at ’er play.”
Mick’s eyebrows shot up. “Bert smiled?”
“Well…” Harry considered. “ ’Is mouth twitched anyway. Might’ve been gas, but I like to think ’twere a smile.”
“Huh,” Mick grunted. If Bert was moved by the baby she was quite the charmer. He felt an odd sensation in his chest, something that might’ve been pride.
The rest of the day went by slowly as he examined the books with Pepper and discussed the special “insurance” investments that Pepper had made on his behalf.
It wasn’t until Mick was walking to his dining room, feeling anticipation, that he realized Silence most likely wouldn’t be there tonight. While the baby had been sick, he’d ordered food brought for both her and the child to their rooms. The toddler might be feeling better now, but Silence would probably still stay with her to make sure of her health.
He walked to his seat, barely acknowledging his men. What was it about the woman that his supper should be bleak without her? Every other woman he’d only valued for what lay between her legs. He wanted that from Silence as well—make no mistake—but he also had the strangest urge to simply talk with the woman. To flirt and provoke and watch her brown-green-blue eyes spark in outrage, soften with interest, warm with heat.
Mick sat and stared down at a plate of roast goose without interest, irritated by his own apathy. He’d eaten countless meals without the wench and been perfectly happy—joyous, even—why then should—
“Don’t you like roast goose?”
He felt the grin stretch his lips before he even looked up. “It’s me favorite.”
She looked adorably confused—and a little shy. Perhaps she was remembering the kiss they’d shared that morning. The thought gave him a tender pang near his heart.
She licked her lips. “Then why were you staring at your plate as if you wished the goose was alive again so you might slaughter it?”
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and propping his chin in one hand to watch her. She’d slept some since he’d last seen her, despite the baby’s return to activity. Her cheeks were a light, healthy pink, and her eyes bright and alert. The sight gladdened him, though he frowned a little at her dress. She wore her usual black with but a white cap and white collar. He’d once seen her in brown, but that had been a year ago.
What would she look like in sparkling blue or deepest red? His gaze dropped to her breasts, barricaded behind worsted wool. She was slim, but still nicely rounded. He’d wager her breasts would look a treat framed by a low-cut emerald bodice, her fair skin shimmering in the candlelight. He’d give—
“Have some boiled turnips,” she said, passing him a bowl.
Mick frowned. “Turnips? At me table? I’ll have a word with Archie, I will.”
“There’s no need,” she said blithely as she served him the misshapen vegetables. “I already have.”
His eyebrows arched. “What do ye mean?”
“I mean,” she said as she accepted a dish of boiled beef from Moll, “that I discussed with Archie the food you serve at your table and I’ve made a few healthful additions. I think you’ll find that your digestion improves considerably.”
He watched in bemusement as she added a heaping mound of steaming carrots to his plate. She was servi
ng him as if she had every right. As if she were the mistress of his table and his home. Strange that. He supported an entire household of people—pirates, servants, and until recently a bevy of doxies—but no one had ever attempted to care for him. The thought spread warm pleasure through his chest—even if the things she was serving did not.
“Vegetables and good English beef, simply prepared, are quite beneficial for the constitution,” she said.
Mick grunted. He’d never been particularly fond of boiled anything.
“Try some,” she said, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright and encouraging.
He looked down the table and saw that his crew were staring, appalled, at huge platters mounded with boiled roots and beef.
Mick narrowed his eyes. “Every man eats vegetables tonight, right?”
The pirates hurriedly began to spoon up carrots and turnips.
Mick forked up a turnip and bit into it, chewing bland mush.
“How is it?” Silence asked.
“Right tasty,” he lied, swallowing.
“You seem distracted tonight,” she said as she frowned at a platter of artichokes.
“Do I?” If he squinted a bit, he could imagine the shadowy curves he’d glimpsed beneath the chemise this morning. Tantalizing, elusive, damned unclear. Mick sighed and looked up to find Silence staring at him, her cheeks flagged red.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve et yer food. Can ye not taste mine?” He pushed the platter of artichokes closer to her, wanting her to eat the food he provided for her.
“Thank you.” She examined the platter with a small frown. “Are you planning another thieving raid?”
“Pirate’s raid.” He propped an elbow on the table. There was a dish of boiled beef by his side, but he had the feeling it wouldn’t taste that different from the turnips. “Why? D’ye hope I’ll meet me bloody death at the end o’ a sword?”
“Dear Lord, no!” She stared at him, appalled. “I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.”
“Even me?” he murmured.
She blushed as she hurriedly helped herself to an artichoke, avoiding his eyes. “Especially not you.”
Something in his chest squeezed.
“Such a saint,” he murmured low. He didn’t want to share this banter with anyone else at the table. “I can almost see yer halo, a-glowin’ in these curls at yer temples.”
He reached out a hand to brush the curls in question. They were little wisps, escaping from the prim knot at her neck, innocently seductive against the delicate skin of her temple.
She caught his hand before he could touch her face.
“Mick,” she whispered, and he felt a sudden thrill: it was the first time she’d used his given name. Her gaze darted down the rest of the table. His men were too smart to be openly looking, but he had no doubt that they were quite aware of what was happening at the head of the table. “Don’t.”
She abruptly dropped his hand.
“Ye wound me, love,” he said lightly, and wondered if it were true. Heaven help him if it were.
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered. “I’m surprised you know what a halo is.”
He grinned. “Oh, I do assure ye the Devil knows his opposite.”
Her brows drew together. “Is that who you see yourself as? The Devil himself?”
He arched his eyebrows. “D’ye doubt it?”
“I didn’t used to.” She poked at her artichoke thoughtfully. “But now I’m no longer sure.”
“Oh, be sure.” He tapped the table with a fingertip for emphasis. “I am the Devil himself, born and bred.”
“Are you? I wonder…” She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then down at her untouched artichoke. “What is this thing?”
“The artichoke?” His lips quirked.
“Is that what it’s called?” She stared disapprovingly down at the vegetable. “I’ve never seen the like. It looks like a giant flower bud.”
“Well, ’tis—or so I’m told.” He gently took the fork from her fingers and picked up her knife, beginning to pry apart the dark green leaves. “They’re grown far away in Italy. A sea captain gave me a crate o’ the things some years ago.”
“Gave?” She raised her eyebrows suspiciously.
He shrugged and flashed her a sly smile. “Gave, took, does it matter, love? To be sure the captain hadn’t much choice, but the result was the same: a case o’ artichokes ended up in me care and I’ve had a fondness for them ever since.”
“Humph.” She peered down suspiciously as he parted the leaves to reveal the choke. “That doesn’t look very tasty.”
“That’s because it isn’t,” he said. “Pay heed: the artichoke is a shy vegetable. She covers herself in spine-tipped leaves that must be carefully peeled away, and underneath shields her treasure with a barricade o’ soft needles. They must be tenderly, but firmly, scraped aside. Ye must be bold, for if yer not, she’ll never reveal her soft heart.”
He finished cutting away the thistles and placed the small, tender heart on the center of her plate.
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s it? But it’s so small.”
“Ah, and d’ye judge a thing solely upon size alone?”
She made a choking sound.
He paused, the knife and fork still in the air. “Now what is it yer thinkin’ about in that prim little mind?”
She shook her head mutely and pointed at the artichoke heart. “Go on?”
“Hmm.” He took bit of soft butter and spread it over the little heart. “Well, I was thinkin’ that sometimes the smaller the treasure, the sweeter the pleasure.”
He cut the heart in half and held it out to her on the tip of the fork and found he was holding his breath. Would she let him feed her? Let him care for her?
She stared suspiciously for a long moment before accepting the morsel into her mouth. His heart leaped in triumph. He watched as the taste in her mouth was reflected in her bright eyes.
“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 we
re 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.”