They stopped at a tavern on the outskirts of London so that he might buy a last drink. And Mick did, praying as he drank that he wouldn’t be rescued. Let his death be price enough for Silence. He knew what the Vicar did to women in his power. He’d watched his mother weep for what the Vicar had made her do.
Let Silence live. Let her be happy.
Finally, finally, the tall Tyburn gallows came into sight, the distinctive triangle top foreboding against the gray sky. Wooden platforms had been built to one side with viewing seats, but the majority of the crowd milled about on foot. Mick saw a woman with a tray of pies on her head, steadily making her way through the mass of people. She was shadowed by a pickpocket who took advantage of her customers while they paid for the pies. A pack of boys with several dogs ran alongside the cart, shouting. Farther on, a juggler entertained a small circle, handily tossing a man’s hat, an orange, a knife, and a posy of flowers into the air. He was quite good, but a group of drunken apprentices to the side were calling insults anyway.
Mick was grimly amused to see that his rescue plan would’ve most likely worked. The cart had to stop again and again as the crowd pressed around it, struggling to catch a glimpse of him. Hands reached inside, pulling at his coat, his breeches. A piece of fabric from his clothes would make a nice souvenir of the day—one that could later be sold to ghoulish collectors. There were soldiers to be sure, dozens on horseback, but the milling people separated the soldiers from the cart.
The cart drove right up to the gallows with no sign of his men and Mick at last breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they had gotten Bert’s message. Perhaps even now they and Makepeace were rescuing Silence.
Dear God, he prayed so.
Mick descended the cart and was led up the gallows steps as the chaplain murmured prayers. The crowd was loud, a yammering, shouting, mass of mindless idiots.
Mick nodded to the hangman, a tall, bent figure, and handed him a guinea. The hood was put over Mick’s head and his legs tied together. He felt the heavy noose drape over his shoulders and then tighten. He breathed in and out, calm and steady, his breath hot under the hood.
A lever was pulled and he dropped into nothingness.
His mouth opened wide, gasping for the air that could not enter his throat.
He spun, jerking involuntarily as stars lit in the darkness behind the hood. He was dying, his body painfully fighting the inevitable. His ears rushed with incomprehensible noise and he suddenly saw Silence’s face, beautiful and as clear as day.
And then he hit the ground.
He lay there, stunned, taking deep, grateful breaths as someone loosened the noose around his neck. He didn’t know if he were dead or alive until the hood was pulled from his head and he saw the Ghost of St. Giles.
“What the fuck are ye doin’ here?” Mick choked out, his throat raw.
“She needs you alive, pirate,” the Ghost said in a familiar voice. He knelt to cut the ropes around Mick’s legs. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m doing this for you. I’ve sent your men ahead. Now go save Silence.”
“Arrogant bastard,” Mick muttered, but the crowd was swarming and the Ghost whirled to fight off two apprentices bent on being heroes.
“Go!” shouted the Ghost.
And Mick did, simply by rolling into the crowd. His hands were still tied and he worked the little penknife he’d concealed up his sleeve loose as people stumbled over him. He was kicked twice in the legs before he could cut the cords. Then he threw off the noose and looked up. A stunned walnut hawker was staring back at him and Mick reached up and pulled the man to the ground, scattering nuts everywhere. He simply shucked his velvet coat and tore the man’s plain brown coat from his back. Mick had on the tattered coat in a thrice, took the man’s battered tricorne for good measure, rubbed dirt on his face and white shirt, and stood.
The spectators were all looking to where the Ghost was in a mismatched fight with four soldiers.
A woman noticed him and began to open her mouth.
“Oi!” Mick shouted. “The pirate’s gettin’ away over there!” He pointed in the opposite direction from the Ghost.
There was a surge as the news spread through the crowd. Mick saw the Ghost fall and then get up again. Some of the crowd were still intent on him, angry for having their entertainment snatched from them. But the Ghost of St. Giles had proven himself a capable fighter more than once. As Mick watched, the Ghost dodged away, slipping back into the milling masses.
Mick drew the collar of his coat up around his cheeks and made for a mounted soldier on the edge of the crowd.
The soldier’s horse was already agitated from the noise and movement of the crowd. All Mick had to do was give the soldier a good push and he tumbled from the nag.
Mick swung up in his place as the horse reared. People screamed and struggled to get away from the horse’s flailing hooves. Mick kicked the nag and they were off at a cantor.
Charlie Grady lived in Whitechapel. Mick rode as fast as possible in that direction. He passed soldiers riding toward Tyburn and what was no doubt a riot now, but they didn’t even look in his direction.
Mick rode hard and as he did all he saw was Silence’s face. A bell began to toll. It had been at least three hours since the Vicar had taken her.
Jaysus, was she alive?
SILENCE SAT AS still as if she were in the presence of a viper. Except the man in front of her was much more dangerous than any snake.
She must survive.
Even if Michael no longer lived, even if this human snake attacked her, she must find a way to learn to live. Mary Darling depended on her and it seemed that Mr. Grady was quite obsessed with Mary.
Or rather he was obsessed with anyone who had any connection to Michael.
They were in an untidy bedroom that still bore the faint sour smell of the sickroom. From that and the feminine accessories on the dressing table she surmised that this must have been Michael’s mother’s room.
The room she’d died in.
Silence shivered and then froze as Charlie Grady swung his hideous face toward her at the movement. He sat in a chair across from her, his left hand constantly rolling two grimy dice. The left side of his head was almost entirely bald, only a few long strands of gray hair grew here and there. His ear was gone as was most of the left side of his nose. The skin that remained was burned a dark, leathery brown and rippled quite disgustingly. Had she seen him in the street, she would’ve turned aside in sympathy.
Here, she was frozen in fear.
Both of their chairs sat in front of a small, unlit hearth. They’d been here, sitting like this for nearly three hours as much as she was able to judge—there was no clock in the room. And that entire time Mr. Grady had been speaking in a low monotone. Any person entering would think he spoke to her, but in reality she might have been another chair. Charlie Grady wasn’t really talking to her.
He was addressing his absent son.
“Thought you could turn her against me, didn’t you?” he said, only one half of his mouth truly moving. “But I soon showed you the error of that! She was ever loyal to me, was my Grace. Loyal though you tried to take her away. Ha! Didn’t work, did it my lad? Now I have your woman and soon I’ll have your little lass. Won’t be able to laugh then, will you, Mickey O’Connor? Not when I’ve fucked your woman and turned her out into the streets.”
It was rather strange to sit here and listen to years of hatred pour from this man’s mouth. She might find it in herself to pity him—were it not for the fact that he quite often in his monologue made reference to what he intended to do to her. Outside the door was a room where half a dozen of Charlie Grady’s men lounged. He’d informed her with chilling indifference that if she tried to escape he’d give her to them to be abused.
A bell began to toll.
Mr. Grady cocked his head, listening. “Right, then, he’s hanging now. Shall we see how lucky you are?”
Silence felt a thrill of horror at his words. Was he
finally addressing her? She watched in morbid fascination as he threw his grimy dice upon the hearth. They rolled and turned up a three and a four.
“Tch,” he said, shaking his head. “Not lucky at all, are we?”
And he stood and began loosening his breeches.
Chapter Twenty
Clever John watched Tamara stick her finger in the pie. “I thought of all the possible mistakes I could make in phrasing my wishes, and still I made the most fundamental one of all: I asked for the wrong thing.”
Tamara ate a cherry thoughtfully and nodded. “Yes, but I cannot help you—you’ve used up all your wishes.”
Clever John closed his eyes wearily. “Then might I ask for one of your feathers, sweet Tamara? A purple one? I shall go to the next world with a rainbow of feathers in my hand.”…
—from Clever John
Mick rode around the corner leading to Charlie Grady’s street and into chaos. His pirates were attacking the house. Men were screaming and moaning, some lying on the ground dying, others fighting hand to hand with the Vicar’s men pouring from the house.
Mick leaped from the horse before the animal had come to a full stop.
“Throw me a knife!” he yelled hoarsely at one of his men and then caught the dagger that came flying through the air.
They’d arrested him.
They’d kidnapped his woman.
And they’d fucking hanged him.
Mick O’Connor was in no mood for any who stood between him and Silence. He flung himself on the first man, grabbing his shoulder and burying the dagger high in the man’s gut. His opponent’s eyes widened and then Mick yanked out the bloody dagger and kicked the body aside.
The next man swung a club at him but Mick ducked and kicked him hard in the knee. The man howled as his knee broke and he went down.
The third man took one look at Mick and simply fled.
Fine with him.
“Into the house!” Mick bellowed.
He charged the door, ramming his way through, and encountered men in a small entryway. Someone was fool enough to shoot a pistol. Smoke billowed and Mick felt a stinging burn on his face. He grabbed the pistol from the shooter and used it to club him over the head.
“Search every room!” Mick ordered his men.
He mounted the stairs three at a time, his heart pounding in his chest. If she weren’t here, if this were a ruse, he didn’t know what he’d do. Mick had no other idea of where the Vicar would’ve taken Silence.
At the top of the stairs was a room with a round table and several chairs. One lone guard was still left and he rushed Mick from above. Mick shifted to the side, pushing the man as he did so, tumbling him head over heels down the stairs.
Mick continued up and saw that two doors were off the outer room. He shoved open the first and saw it was a bedroom, plain and neat and entirely empty. The second door was locked and he kicked it open, the door ricocheting off the wall with a crack.
Inside he saw Silence.
He froze.
She sat, weeping, on the rug next to the hearth. Her hair straggling down the side of her neck, the bodice of her dress was ripped to the waist, and the sweet swells of her breasts were revealed over her stays.
There was a reddened mark across her tender breast.
Dear God, he’d come too late.
WHEN MICHAEL FIRST came through the door Silence thought she’d gone mad. The horrible events of the last hours must have weakened her mind, mocking her with visions of her husband.
Then he opened his mouth and spoke. “I’m sorry.”
His voice was a thready rasp, but she didn’t mind. She was up off the wretched hearthrug in a thrice, rushing into his arms, uncaring of her state or the dirt and powder burns on his face. She wrapped her arms around him and simply held on.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his lips tracing her cheek so softly. “Please forgive me, Silence. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
She murmured and tried to capture his lips with hers, but he pulled back and she saw with wonder that there were tears in his eyes. “I’ll kill him for ye, never fear. Jus’… Jus’ don’t give up on us. I’ll take care o’ ye while ye heal. And ye will heal, I promise.”
She stared at him, bemused. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“The Vicar”—he grit his teeth and exhaled hard—“ hurt ye.”
“But he didn’t.”
“What?”
She took his hand and led him around the bed, pointing without looking. She’d taken one look afterward and it had been quite enough.
She swallowed and whispered, “He tried to… to… well, you know, and I waited until he thought I was quite cowed and then I took the dagger you gave me from my stocking and I killed him.”
She gestured again to the Vicar’s body, lying prone on the floor by the bed. “I’m afraid I didn’t aim for his eyes or his belly like you told me to. I just stabbed him in the back.”
“Ye…” Michael looked, bemused, between her and the body. “Stabbed…”
“Him. Yes.” She wrapped her arms about herself. Charlie Grady was his father after all. Perhaps Michael was in shock or grief. Perhaps—
Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Ye killed the Vicar o’ Whitechapel!”
“Well… yes,” she replied, nonplussed.
“The most dangerous, the most insane bastard in all o’ London, and ye, ye, Silence, killed him with one blow.” Michael wiped away tears of laughter.
“Er… yes?”
He kissed her, hard and fast and for a moment all she did was revel in the feel of his still-smiling lips on hers.
Then he led her away from the body. “God, how I admire ye. Yer so calm and sweet and such a ferocious little thing all at the same time. But why were ye weepin’?”
“Dear Michael.” She laid the palm of her hand on his cheek. “I was weeping for you. I thought you hanged and dead. How did you escape from the gallows?”
“The Ghost o’ St. Giles.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “He came and cut the rope as I was swingin’.”
“Oh, God.” She shut her eyes, suddenly feeling ill at how close a thing it must’ve been.
“And ye, me darlin’? What happened here all this time since he took ye from me?”
“He brought me here and talked and talked for hours, it seemed. And then.” She gulped. “He came for me. But the Vicar never got very far with what he intended. I was not raped.” A sudden, rather awful thought assailed her. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
A wide grin spread across his handsome face. “Darlin’, I don’t believe in God, but I believe in ye.”
“Michael, that’s blasphemy,” she chided, even as she couldn’t keep the corners of her own mouth from turning up.
“No,” he said, very serious now, “that’s love. I hear ye, I believe ye, and I love ye, me darlin’.”
She looked at him mutely, too afraid to ask.
But he nodded as he drew her into his arms. “I love ye, Silence O’Connor, with all me black heart.”
“I don’t think your heart is all that black.” She smiled though tears sparkled in her eyes again. “I love you, too.”
She stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, simply glad to feel his warmth, his breath. But then a thought occurred to her. She pulled back to look him in the face urgently. “But the soldiers will be looking for you.”
“Aye.” He took off the ragged coat he wore and wrapped it about her, concealing her ripped bodice, then he took her hand and pulled her toward the door. Outside in the anteroom they found Bert just coming up the stairs.
“The Vicar’s men ’ave all been thrashed,” Bert panted, “but one o’ our crew says there’s soldiers comin’ this way.”
Mick nodded. “The Vicar’s corpse is in the bedroom. Have a couple o’ me men get it. And if you don’t mind, I’ll borrow this.” He took Bert’s gray wig, leaving Bert’s bald head naked.
“But you’ve been condemne
d to death,” Silence cried. “Won’t we have to flee the country?”
“Aye, we might,” he said with a sly smile. He plopped Bert’s wig on his head. “Were it not for Mr. Rivers.”
“I don’t understand,” she said as he led her out the door and down the stairs.
“Charming Mickey O’Connor is goin’ to meet a tragic death. It’ll have to be at the palace, I fear, more’s the shame, but it won’t be believed otherwise. I’ll have Harry and Bert take the Vicar’s body there and set it alight. Set the whole palace alight.”
“So they’ll find a burned body afterward and think it’s yours?” Silence shivered at the gruesome thought. “But where will we go?”
He stopped just inside the door and caught both her hands. “I’m to be a respectable, Englishman shipbuilder now, Mr. Michael Rivers. And you, my love will be Mrs. Rivers. We’ll send for Mary Darling and live in Windward House in Greenwich.”
His accent changed as he told her the news, becoming once again the thoroughly English Mr. Rivers.
Silence gazed up at him, and whispered. “So you’ll give up your pirating? Just like that?”
He cleared his throat. “Someone I love—and respect—told me that I could be a better man than a pirate.”
“Oh, Michael.” He was giving her everything she’d asked for.
He was giving her a family.
They were out on the street now and Silence saw with relief that Harry was among Michael’s men. He had a great bandage about his head, but he seemed well enough. He’d be able to wheedle any number of sweets out of female servants looking like a wounded hero.
Silence hurriedly put her hair back up as best she could with her remaining pins, while Michael shrugged on one of his men’s coat.
Bert led over a horse. Michael mounted first and Bert handed her up to sit before him. Then Bert stepped back and saluted.
Michael nodded to him and nudged the horse into a trot.
Silence looked around nervously. She could hear shouts and hoof beats in the distance. She felt at her hair. It was up off her neck, but Lord only knew what it looked like.